


Blind Panic, Random Direction

by Dramatological



Series: Unspoken Accords [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dark, Deviates From Canon, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Female Gaze, Female Protagonist, Fluff, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light Bondage, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Star-crossed, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tragedy/Comedy, Tragic Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-03-15 08:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 72
Words: 50,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3440570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dramatological/pseuds/Dramatological
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Okay.  So she was fighting next to a templar, who would probably only lock her up for the rest of her natural life, and an elf who may or may not get an erection from watching her expire in a pool of her own blood.  Hawke had been in worse places.</i>
</p><p>---</p><p>Surviving as a mage in Kirkwall is harder than it sounds.  A story told in vignettes.</p><p>While some vignettes overlap or replace some scenes, most are meant to be inserted between plot points in the game.  I do not bother to explain what exactly is going on in these, so if you have no knowledge of the game, the finer details might escape you, but you shouldn't be entirely lost.</p><p> <b>*Now with art!*</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Hawke Meets a Templar

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing or posting any fanfiction. Please be gentle.
> 
> I don't have a beta, so please pretend the mistakes are just me being edgy.
> 
> Standard disclaimer: I don't own these characters. They belong to Bioware with props to their respective writers, voice actors, animators, and fans.

She was fighting next to a templar. No problem. Hawke lifted her staff ( _walking stick_ , her inner voice reminded insistently) sideways and swung it, two-handed, with as much strength as she could muster. It connected with the abomination's head with a satisfying thonk. She grunted, her hands tingling from the impact of wood against bone and stumbled backwards a couple of steps. The whole thing would have been far more impressive if the abomination had noticed. To be fair, it's attention was mostly focused on Fenris, who was in the process of slicing it into little bits with a gleeful, almost maniacal grin plastered to his usually dour features. She'd only met him a week ago, but she already had nightmares about the elf greeting her one morning with a look of sheer, childlike joy. He only really looked happy when hacking mages to death, and that would be the day he had finally decided to end her.

Okay. So she was fighting next to a templar, who would probably only lock her up for the rest of her natural life, and an elf who may or may not get an erection from watching her expire in a pool of her own blood. Hawke had been in worse places. This was positively cheerful compared to the blight. Her eyes slid up and caught on Anders, visible on the other side of the battle. He was staring back at her with blue eyes. Blue eyes that were normally a warm golden amber. That was not a good sign. She waved her arms silently at him, making desperate faces. She could see his shoulders hitch up, then drop again as he sighed (long suffering, she was sure) at her and lifted his own stave to smack it, half-heartedly, at the back of a rage demon.

A brilliant, white hot flash of light assaulted her eyes and she reeled, ducking instinctively as the heat and wrongness swept over her. She was fighting next to a templar who had now started smiting things. She wasn't even the target and she could feel her knees threatening to buckle and her head suddenly thick and slow. Right. This was not a problem. Everything was FINE. Hawke shook off the side effects of the man's spell ( _anti-spell_ , her inner voice mumbled, as if she needed the reminder) and shifted forward again, sliding back into place next to the templar, allies and countrymen, fighting side by side against all the bad things the world could throw at him. Everything was going swimmingly. A shield appeared as if by magic ( _no, no magic, no magic here, magic bad_ \-- the monologue in her head prattled on endlessly) in front of her face and took a blow that was meant for her. A heartbeat later and the templar stepped in front of her, pressing her back with his elbow against her ribs.

Hawke let out her breath and shook her head again, quickly. _Get it together, Red._ She side stepped and lifted her staff up over her head and back, going for an overhand swing at the demon from the safety of behind the great wall of steel and steely templar. The shaft caught and was yanked out of her hands. She spun around, finding herself face to face with a shade that had come up behind her. Hawke was fighting next to a templar, and a shade was now holding her staff in one taloned hand as it screeched at her, mouth stretched wide over rows of needle sharp teeth. Okay, maybe a slight problem. On instinct, Hawke leaned back, lifting one leg and kicking out viciously. Her heel connected solidly against the shade, but it didn't budge, it's free hand grabbing at her ankle and yanking her forwards.

Desperately, she twisted, lifting her grounded leg and jerking wildly at the hand that held her. She fell to the dirt on her back and grunted, choking as all the breath left her lungs. The shade slid forward, not moving so much as flickering, it's great clawed hand reaching for her. Hawke couldn't breathe, couldn't move. She was going to die, here, felled by a minor shade after surviving the blight, itself. She didn't have a choice. She lifted a hand, a blast of ice catching the shade and freezing it to the ground just out of reach. Hawke went still, staring at the shade in horror. There was nothing at all subtle about ice. Even if it were subtle, templars knew magic, they knew when it was being cast. The knight captain would know. A tiny, plaintive moan escaped her lips as she scrambled backwards, away from the shade.

Maybe she could just kill the templar. The thought bubbled up, then burst almost immediately. She wasn't entirely clear on Templar hierarchy, but she had the feeling Knight Captain was slightly above the rank of no one notices is missing.

She barely made it two awkward, fumbling crab walks backwards when Fenris leaped over her, tattoos blazing blue white against his dusky skin, the great two handed sword raised overhead, point down. He landed on top of the shade, his blade burying itself through the demon's chest. He'd barely gained his feet when he yanked the sword out and spun, cutting through the air not a foot from Hawke's face before slicing into ephemeral flesh. The staff clattered to the ground and rolled to one side, followed almost immediately by the top half of the creature, now severed from it's bottom half. The torso of the beast hit the ground and dissolved into a black, sticky mist that creeped malevolently over the ground before dissipating in the slight morning breeze. Her staff stayed mercifully real.

The elf turned to look down at her, two sets of green eyes -- his forest, hers emerald -- stared at each other. He owed her. He owed her, and he wasn’t smiling at her. Hawke dared to hope. Fenris seemed to consider her for a second before he turned, lifting a foot to kick the now empty sheath of ice off the side of the short cliff and out of view. Relief flooded Hawke, bringing her breath back. Without evidence, in the middle of battle, any one of those demons could have been the cause of magic being cast, and Fenris had just hidden the damning clue that would point to her, thank the Maker.

A hand appeared and she followed it up to the shoulder and stared. The templar was a dirty blond bordering on strawberry, with a strong jaw covered in scruff and hard eyes. Reasonably handsome, if terrifying, his smile at least, held a hint of gentleness that played around the edges, "Serah," he said as she took his hand and he hauled her up from the ground easily, "I thank you for your..." he looked around before finishing, tactfully, "Help." He didn't think she was a mage, just incompetent. She could deal with incompetent. She put on her best brilliant smile and took a breath before pausing... Knight Captain... Knight Captain... What had the apprentice called him? Kennith? Kaidan?

"Knight Captain Cullen, I presume?" Varric to the rescue, as usual. She turned to look at the dwarf, her smile settling into a more natural one. She let him handle the introductions, he enjoyed talking to strangers. Her staff bounced against her chest and she grabbed it, looking up to see Fenris still staring at her with a vaguely pained expression. If she were going to pretend to be a fighter, the least she could do was keep her weapon, his expression seemed to say. She offered the elf an awkward smile which prompted a disgusted huff of air before he went back to ignoring her. Not for the first time, and likely not the last, Hawke wondered what the hell she was doing, taking jobs to rescue templars. Oh, right. Gold. She was doing this for gold.


	2. In Which Hawke Explains the Name

“Why _does_ everyone call you Red?” It was an odd question, considering Varric had just told a small crowd of strangers the story of how she had gotten the nickname, downstairs. If she remembered correctly, it had involved a muddy river bank, a dagger, and a strapping young Fereldan nobleman out to rip her bodice. There had been a lot of breathy squeals. Hawke was also on her third mug of ale, so it’s possible that had been the story before.

“Obvious reasons,” she answered the dwarf with a grin, lifting a hand to catch a lock of dark hair between her fingertips. It could look a sort of dark red, if backlit from the sun. Sunset. On fire. It would look red if on fire.

“I hate to tell you this, Hawke, but no one is buying that story.”

“I rather liked the idea she got it from stabbing Lord Twitstein,” Anders broke in with a smile.

“Twillstark,” Fenris corrected the apostate. He was not smiling.

“I thought that was a metaphor,” Isabella said, “You know, with the thrusting and gasping and bleeding.” She looked around the room as everyone stopped to stare at her, “What?”

“Patrick Southfield,” Hawke announced before Isabella could wander any father in that direction. She set her mug down on the table with the overly careful motions of someone who knows exactly how many they’ve had.

“You stabbed Patrick Southfield?” Merrill asked, looking up from her glass of what the barmaid had claimed was milk, but no one had been brave enough to try. Varric reached over and set his relatively large hand over the petit elf’s delicate and long fingered one, smiling at her fondly.

“I was _in love_ with Patrick Southfield,” Hawke clarified, “I was young and he had…” she trailed off for a spell, gazing into the middle distance of memory. “Shoulders,” she finally finished. Her eyes came back into focus to find Merrill watching her, nonplussed. “And a back,” she tried again, “And this… stomach.”

“Ah,” Varric sighed dreamily, “You never really forget your first anatomy lesson.”

“It was a metaphor!” Isabella smirked in sudden triumph, “I knew it.”

Hawke groaned, leaning back in her chair and folding one of her legs under the other, “Anyway. We had this town feast to celebrate harvest in Lothering, social event of the year, believe it or not. And the kids all had to help, right? Cause… Harvest’s done, and the only thing left between harvest and snowed in was getting into trouble. So I begged, and I cajoled, and I threatened, and I blackmailed, and I’m not promising I didn’t resort to blood magic to get paired up with Patrick.” She glanced at Fenris nervously to ensure he had caught that it was a joke. Not a hint of a smile. She may yet live through another day.

“So Patrick and I get assigned to salads, and we’re in his mother’s kitchen. She’s … I dunno, out somewhere,” she waved a hand vaguely, “And I’m a grown up, right? I know what I want, I’d seen dogs and horses and… you know. You grow up around farms, you know what mommies and daddies do to get all those fat babies.”

“You wanted children?” Anders asked with a soft, almost wistful smile.

“Not even a little,” Hawke shook her head, “But the Sisters at the chantry were pretty clear about those two things being mutually dependant, and I figured one more fat baby more or less…”

Varric’s face was red from trying not to laugh, and his smile was infectious. Hawke grinned back at him, “Right?”

The dwarf nodded, “Absolutely right, Hawke.”

Hawke spread her hands, declaring that her logic had made perfect sense at the time, “So I took my clothes off.”

Anders choked on his ale and Varric couldn’t contain his mad laughter, anymore, tossing his head back and roaring. Even Fenris managed a snort that was more or less entirely unlike a chuckle.

Hawke continued the story in between bouts of giggling, “So Patrick turns around, and he’s holding this…” She holds her hands out to indicate size, “Great big bowl of mashed berries.”

“Oh, no. No!” Varric held up a hand, still laughing, his protest breathless.

“Oh, yes. Berry guts from head to toe. I was bright pink for weeks.”

Isabella twisted one side of her lips upwards suggestively, “And did you get Patrick’s... shoulders?”

Hawke leaned forward to pick up her ale before leaning back again with a small, secret smile, “That’s another story.”


	3. In Which Hawke Kills a Blood Mage

A blood mage. _Another_ blood mage. And Hawke had stabbed her. Somehow that never seemed like a helpful action and yet she kept doing it, and it kept working. How many was that, now? She couldn’t remember, she’d have to think about it later. Later, when the woman’s body wasn’t slumped over next to the bed, her preferred source of magic soaking into the floorboards at Hawke’s feet.

Something was pulling at her hand and she looked down. The clawed gauntlets of Fenris were carefully peeling her fingers away from the white-knuckled grip she had on the dagger. She relaxed her hand and watched numbly as he pulled the blade away and wiped the blood off onto the bedspread, leaving a smear of red. _At least we can prove she was a virgin when I took her._ She didn’t say it outloud. Regardless of what the others thought, she did, occasionally, censor the wildly inappropriate jokes that sprang fully formed into her head.

“Everyone okay?” she turned to look back at the others while Fenris pulled a rag out of his pocket and got the worst of the blood off her hand.

“She… You almost…” Anders put a hand to his throat and swallowed.

“But she didn’t,” Varric cut in, looking up at Anders with that unreadable expression he got when he said something sympathetic to the mage. Hawke made a mental note to ask him about that sometime. The dwarf looked around the room, “We’ll need to look around for evidence about those missing Templars. And probably get Aveline in here to…” he looked down at the woman’s body, “I don’t suppose the Madam will believe we found her like this.” Clean up the body. Smooth over the trouble that murdering people could cause. That’s what the dwarf was going to say before he’d trailed off.

They’d been around long enough that the city guard just took her word for it when she called them in to arrest the still living and drag off the dead from her encounters with bandits and slavers and other assorted flavors of bad people on the streets. A lone dead woman in a brothel? That was gonna require an answer or two.

A dwarf with a plan was all Anders needed to overcome the shock of watching Hawke nearly slit her own throat and he took a couple of steps back, “I’ll get Aveline,” he said before turning and leaving the room.

Fenris was sliding her dagger back into it’s sheath secured to the back of her belt and studiously avoiding looking at her, “You did well,” he said, gruff and short. Hawke narrowed her eyes at him. Of course she did well. She always did well, and the elf knew that. Why was he suddenly treating her like a victim?

“I think you’re sweet on me, Fenris. My brilliant charm and stunning good looks have won you over, at last.”

The elf yanked his hands back as if he’d been burned and spun away from her with one of his patented disgusted huffs, “You’re impossible, woman.” Woman? That was a step up -- a small step -- from the ‘mage’ he had been calling her. And a whole flight of stairs up from the ‘Abomination’ he’d dubbed Anders. Maybe he really was starting to not loathe her.

“Careful,” she shot back, “Soon you’ll end up calling me by name, and then? Pet names.” The elf ignored her as he pulled open the wardrobe and rifled through the dresses, “I’m thinking you can call me kitten, and I’ll call you woofy.”

“I was hoping for snookums and fluffybutt,” Varric offered absently, his attention focused mostly on the piles of paper on the desk.

“Cupcake and cuddlewumps,” Hawke said as she took the sheet of paper Varric handed her and read it over. She was silent a moment before she heaved a great sigh, “I was hoping we wouldn’t be tramping through sewers, today. Just got this robe cleaned.”


	4. In Which Hawke Squeaks

“We pop in, drop off the templar spawn, tell Cullen we did a wonderful job saving him from the blood mages because _we’re on his side_ ,” she shot a meaningful glance at Anders while she said that, “Collect our reward, and get right back out. No muss, no fuss.”

“And we won’t be calling the trainees ‘templar spawn.’ At least, not in front of the good Captain,” Varric added.

“Right. No spawn comments. Where is the fade-blasted practice yard?” Hawke asked as she stopped moving so suddenly Fenris nearly walked into her.

“Left,” the elf replied, then started moving again as Hawke stormed off in that direction, her head still tucked down against her chest as if that would avoid calling any attention.

“Merrill has our weapons, and she’s waiting outside. All the lyrium potions?” she glanced at Anders who nodded, “And you’re sure he won’t remember you testing him to see if he was possessed?”

“If he does, he won’t admit it. He’s closer to being labeled an abomination than any of us,” the mage replied.

“Ironic,” Fenris muttered under his breath, but was ignored.

“Right,” Hawke nodded, “We can do this. This is gonna work out just fine. We’re all fine. Everything is… Oh, sweet Maker.” Hawke stopped again, staring, wide eyed and open mouthed at the finely chiseled stomach of the Knight Captain. She slapped a hand over her mouth, only barely managing to muffle the little squeak ( _Are you a child, Red? A little girl with a new ribbon? Stop it! Stop making that noise!_ ) as she tore her eyes up to his face.

A slow, flattered grin was spreading across the templar’s face. He was even… No... Oh, Maker, yes, the man was blushing. Hawke turned on her heel and squeezed her eyes shut. The best laid plans, laid low by one shirtless man. Andraste preserve her, the void take her, sweet Maker, strike her down. _Now, please, if it’s not too much trouble._

Varric stepped forward smoothly and inserted himself between the lady mage and the half naked templar, “Knight Captain Cullen, you remember Red? She’s brought back your erstwhile trainee.”

There was more talking but Hawke barely noticed, standing silently in her humiliation for several minutes before she finally opened her eyes and lowered her hand. She took several deep breaths before she turned around slowly. Cullen had put on a shirt, and everything was fine again. She smiled.

Cullen smiled back.

“Right, so. We found the… In the… And we’re… He’s…” One hand started fluttering around like a drunken butterfly, pointing, waving, reaching for her hair. Everything was beautiful. “So we’ll… Just...”

“It was nice to see you again, Serah. Red.” Cullen interrupted her ramblings and took her hand before it could fly away, his gentle smile gaining a hard, playful edge as he leaned forward to kiss her knuckles.

Hawke squeaked again and snatched back her hand before beating a hasty retreat.


	5. In Which Varric Perfects his Hawke Imitation

“In the… And we’re… He’s… So we’ll… Just...” Varric was doing a really quite good impression of Hawke, complete with wildly fluttering hands, heaving breast (or, at least, fluttering chest hair) and eyes that are trying so hard not to look past the chin that they may as well have signs painted about where they wanted to look.

Isabella was roaring -- _roaring_ \-- with laughter. Carver was standing next to her, snorting in breaths in an attempt to laugh and breathe at the same time. Strangers! _Complete strangers_ , even the funny drunk in the corner who kept accusing her of being a Witch of the Wilds, were cackling and hooting and making strange noises that didn't even have words to describe them.

Hawke slumped a little farther in her chair, clutching her fifth mug of ale (one for each time Varric had repeated the tale, adding interesting details and perfecting his impression along the way), “There were… Bumps, Isabella! Bumps!” Hawke’s breath was hitching and uneven, tears or terror or laughter, and even she didn't know which.

“Ooooh! Bumps!” Isabella managed to get a breath past the giggling, “Were there ridges too?”

“Uhhnhuh! And … A line! With h-hair!” She was gesticulating madly at this point, trying to convey the sheer enormity of the situation with the bumps and ridges and lines and hair.

“And shoulders?” Isabella asked, mock innocence plastered to her face like week old pancake makeup.

“Oh, maker!” Hawke dropped her head to the table and covered it with her arms before suddenly bolting upright, staring wild-eyed at her brother, “If you breathe a word of this to mother…!”

“Oh, come now, sister,” Carver smirked at her, “I think she’d understand. Pretty sure father had shoulders.” He and Isabella dissolved into giggles, leaning against each other.

Hawke’s head fell forward onto the table again and stayed there this time, “I’m doomed.”

Varric made a dismissive noise in his throat, “Oh, he liked it.”

“He’s a templar!”

“And you could use a little inside tip,” Varric cajoled softly.

“I think she wants more than the tip,” Isabella said, causing another fit of snickering from her corner of the bar.

“He knows my name!” Hawke was whining, now.

“So he knows what to scream in bed,” Carver and Isabella were on a roll, even gathering a bit of an audience.

Varric grunted and set a stout hand on her shoulder, “Come on, now, Chuckles. We’re not gonna let them take you in. Who else would we tell stories about?”

“Doomed!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to anyone who caught the cameo!


	6. In Which Cullen Takes a Report

“There was some disturbance in the gallows, last night?” Cullen looked over the three junior members of the order critically. One had a black eye, another a busted lip, and the third refused to sit down.

“Uh. Bit of a ruckus, yes, sir,” the first (Thompson?) said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His eyes flicked about the room nervously. None of the men would meet his gaze, “Think they was lookin for you, sir.”

“Looking for me?”

“Well, the one lass, she kept yellin for ya, sir.” Thompson (Tucker?) cleared his throat, “She uh… she was keen for you ta know that she wasn afraid of ya.” He wiped his hand over the two day’s growth of beard, “Think she’d been drinkin a bit.” A pause, then remembering, “Sir.”

Cullen furrowed his brows, “A mage, then?”

The first man exchanged glances with the second, “Well, she wasn castin no spells, sir.”

Cullen waited, but no further information was forthcoming. He leaned forward, putting on his best _things-will-go-better-for-you-if_ face, “You didn't bring the young lady in for questioning?”

The first man blanched noticeably and took to studying the far wall. The second man took that as his queue to talk, “We tried, sir. But she punched Turner in the nose.”

Cullen turned his swiftly developing glare on Turner, who rushed to defend himself, “It didn hurt or nothin, sir, I was gonna catch her, even got her backed into a corner, but then the second lass, she showed up out a nowhere. Jumped on Frank’s back and yelled ‘heeyah!’ Was smackin his bum with a ridin crop!”

Frank, the one who wouldn't sit down was staring, steely eyed, straight ahead. He had apparently decided that he wanted nothing to do with this farce.

Turner hurried on, “And then, see, the lasses, they was arguin with each other. First lass says the second was doin it wrong, and she was s’post to plunder ‘is booty.”

The second man leaned forward in his chair, eager to contribute now that Frank seemed to be the only one who couldn't handle a couple of drunk lasses, “And the second, she says she was gonna ride ‘im home, first.”

“And where were you while Frank and Turner were being assaulted?”

The second man paled and sat back, “Well, I was there, sir! I was helpin Turner catch the one in the dress. She was a slippery one, sir. All kinda boneless and unpredictable, like.”

“She spit on me!” This was important evidence in Turner’s defense, apparently.

Silence descended as Cullen leaned heavily onto his desk and tried not to sigh. Meredith was not going to be happy if she heard that youngsters were humiliating the order. He counted to ten silently, in his head, “What you’re telling me is they got away?”

The two sitting men looked at each other, then looked at Frank, who was still pretending to be somewhere else. Finally Turner cleared his throat, “Well, we almost got the first one, sir. Was really close to herdin the little lassie into a pen.” A long pause, “Then, see, that’s when the goats got out.” Another pause, quieter, "Sir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "All boneless and unpredictable like." Inspired by Jayne in Firefly. I don't know if he ever actually said that, but I hear it in his voice. I think he said something similar. Firefly, is, of course, care of Joss Whedon.


	7. In Which Carver Loses his Virginity

It was one of those storms that only covered half the heavens, leaving the odd surrealism of bright and sunny, while water fell from the sky. Hawke was sitting on a large rock next to the cave entrance, letting the rain wash the mud off her face and soak her robes. Fenris stood a short distance away, under a natural run off, trying to get the blood and gore out of his hair.

Carver and Isabella? Well, they had run screaming out into the weather, and were now both naked as babes. He was chasing her, she was pretending to run away. There was squealing involved. On both their parts.

Fenris appeared next to her on the rock, his movements silent and slow, as if Hawke were a doe that might skitter off at any sudden motion. She glanced at him, but decided not to mock him for it. This time. He watched for a bit, until her gaze swept back out towards the ocean, then relaxed, “This doesn't bother you?” The elf waved a hand at the two giddy teenagers. Well, one giddy teenager and a pirate.

“Isabella naked? Half of Kirkwall has seen it, figure it’s just my turn.”

“And your brother?”

Hawke turned her head to look at the elf, “First thing that goes in a blight? Modesty and proper decorum.”

“Much the same in any war,” Fenris said, tilting his head as Isabella finally let Carver catch her, and the two twirled around before tumbling down a grassy slope towards the shore and out of sight. “And that?”

Hawke pursed her lips, “What’s a few sores and rashes in payment for a lifetime of bitterness and regret?” The elf stared at her, his brows furrowed, and she sighed before shrugging, “You know how kids swing sticks around and call it sword fighting?” Fenris nodded and she continued, “He’s swinging his cock around and calling it love.”

“He’s play acting?”

“Sure. That’s how kids learn. They play at cleaning, play at cooking, play at fighting…” She gave him a small grin, “Then they play at flirting, play at kissing, and play at sex. And then they figure out that swords are sharp and everyone has emotions, even warriors. And ex slaves.” She gave him a narrowed eyed, knowing look and he cleared his throat, looking away.

“You mock me.”

“I mock most people. It’s part of my charm.”

Fenris looked back at her, shaking his head, “You are a very odd woman, Hawke.”

“I prefer to think of it as an overabundance of adorable quirks.”

“You blush and stammer when faced with a man’s naked chest, yet speak openly of your brother’s genitals.”

Hawke spread her hands, “I helped change his nappies. Trust me, not nearly as interesting a some men’s naked chests.”

Fenris just nodded at that and looked back out at the setting sun, the two of them sitting in companionable silence and watching until only a half circle remained and the other two intrepid adventurers returned, freshly washed in the waves. He gave a soft sigh that Hawke heard but the other two didn't and spoke up again, “We will camp here, tonight.”

“We should probably do something about the bodies, first,” Hawke said, jerking her head towards the corpses of Tal-Vashoth laying where they fell, a few feet away.


	8. In Which Hawke Counts Stars

Isabella and Carver were sharing a blanket. Hawke watched them from the other side of the fire. They were sleeping, tangled up together all swirled bronze and pink, drifts of black hair, soft snoring. This was a far more disturbing development than them not-sleeping together.

Hawke huffed to herself and rolled to her back, pillowing her head on one bent arm. The stars were brilliant out here, away from the city, the band of them low across the horizon reminded her of the fade, a lit path to the black city that both terrified her and filled her with a sense of awe and wonder.

She could hear Fenris behind her, breathing softly, close enough that she could tousle his hair if she reached her arm up over her head. She knew he wasn't sleeping. He never did, when they camped, “Fenris.”

“Yes, Hawke?” His voice was pitched low to not wake the others, but he answered immediately.

“Should I turn Isabella into a frog before she gets her claws too deep in my brother?”

He was quiet for a short while before he made an indifferent sort of grunt, “I do not imagine that will improve your already strained relationship.”

Hawke snorted softly. That wasn't a fun answer. Imminently reasonable, but not fun. She raised a hand, measuring the distance between a couple of stars with her thumb held at arms length.

Moments passed before she dropped her hand back to her stomach and spoke again, “Fenris.”

“Yes, Hawke,” no irritated grunt from the elf, not even a sigh.

“Tell me about Saharon.”

Again, there was a long pause before he answered, “Hot, wet. The scents of tea and spice. The sounds of fighting, or marching, or the marketplace. The waves and distant birdsong.”

More silence as Hawke considered that, then, “Fenris.”

“Hawke.”

“Tell me a story.”

There was the soft sigh, the barely audible grunt of annoyance that Hawke had been waiting for, “Do you also require tucking in, before you sleep? Shall I check under your blanket for monsters?”

“Well, if you’re offering…”

The hiss of frustrated breath, “You are the most aggravating....”

“I like your voice,” Hawke interrupted softly.

The elf exhaled a long, slow breath before replying, his tone softer, but still edged, “It’s late, Hawke. You should rest.”

Hawke let the silence stretch out, counting stars.

“Fenris.”

The elf didn't answer. A minute passed before she tried again, “Cupcake?”

He didn't answer for long enough that Hawke opened her mouth before she heard his intake of breath, “You’re cupcake. I’m cuddlewumps.”

Hawke grinned at the stars. The man never forgot a single detail, “Fair enough.”


	9. In Which Hawke Meets the Arishok

Qunari men, as a general rule, didn’t wear shirts. Hawke knew that, with the sort of intellectual knowledge one picks up while killing people, but the effect was somewhat dulled when they were also trying to kill her. The particular Qunari man standing at the gate to the compound looked capable of killing her, assuming he got that close, but not in immediate danger of deciding to. Hawke smiled at him.

Words were spoken, the gate swung open, and Fenris took her elbow, pulling her away from the lone man at the gate and into an entire paradise of large, strapping, shirtless men who weren’t trying to kill her. Hawke smiled at all of them.

The dwarf who was hoping to barter their killing of the Tal-Vashoth was there, waiting for them, but he wasn’t nearly as interesting as the Arishok. He seemed taller, more broad-shouldered, with more impressive musculature than even the other Qunari, but that could have been the complete, unconscious command he moved with. Hawke smiled and lidded her eyes at him, a kitten with a belly full of warm cream.

Fenris said something and she managed to tear her eyes away from the Arishok to look at him. He wasn’t speaking any language she knew, which only made his voice that much more appealing. The arishok answered and her knees felt weak. Fenris’ sultry growl answered by the Arishok’s velvet purr. Half naked Qunari. Sweet maker, she never wanted to leave.

“This is my new happy place,” she murmured, half to herself.

“What?” the dwarf asked.

“Hm?” she replied, turning her face towards the dwarf but not looking away from the Arishok.

“He’s not going to pay,” the dwarf hissed at her.

“I’m sure we can work something out,” she said, her smile sliding towards a grin.

Fenris choked suddenly and stepped in front of her, holding his hands out as if to shield her from incoming attacks as he unilaterally took over negotiation. Varric grabbed her wrist and pulled her back, muttering, “Andraste’s flaming knickers, Hawke.”

“We have got to get her laid,” Anders put in softly, causing both Varric and Hawke to go into fits of coughing. The arishok, all of his men, and Fenris turned to stare at them. Varric waved a hand and pounded Hawke on the back. She raised a hand and went back to smiling silently.

“Does your companion require a tamassran?” The Arishok asked the elf.

Fenris’ eyes got bigger and he stammered. _The elf actually stammered_ , “Ah… I don’t…” To his credit, he recovered quickly, “She would not appreciate the offer, Arishok. We ask your indulgence for her ignorance.”

“What’s a tamassran?” Hawke asked. Varric face palmed and Anders shook his head. Fenris tried to ignore her until the Arishok arched a brow at the elf and raised a hand, commanding him to answer.

He turned around stiffly and cleared his throat, “Teachers, healers… Some of them provide…” He took a breath, “Sexual services.”

“Did…” Hawke’s mouth worked with no sound for a moment before she managed to continue, “Did the Arishok just offer me sex?”

“Of a sort,” the elf answered her before his mouth twisted, “I do not believe you would be interested.”

“No?”

“All tamassran are women,” the elf stated, deadpan.

Hawke blinked at him, then up at the Arishok. Back down to Fenris, “Do any of them look like him?”


	10. In Which the Heroes give Peace a Chance

“One tiny little diplomatic incident…”

“You suggested to a world leader that they prostitute themselves to pay a debt they didn’t actually owe, Chuckles” Varric reminded Hawke softly.

“Oh, like none of you have ever done that!”

“I think I did, once, but Anora kinda deserved it.”

“No one’s talking to you, drunk guy!” Hawke snapped, then slumped back into her chair, her voice lowering, “Besides, he can’t be a world leader. He’s sitting in a walled compound in the docks of Kirkwall shouting orders from a bench. I’m pretty sure drunk guy has more authority.”

“Drunk guy doesn’t command the entire Qunari military,” Fenris said before taking a drink of his ale.

Hawke blinked at that, swallowed, “The entire Qunari military?” Fenris nodded, “Oh.” She drained her ale before sliding the mug away and picking up Anders’, ignoring his protests, “Well, maybe he thought it was charming.”

“I have never known a Qunari to find anything charming,” Fenris said, causing Hawke to drain the second ale.

“Well… What are the chances he’s going to start a war over one woman, really?” She looked around at the others, “In this dump? Come on, you wanna invade something, you’re going to Orlais, not Kirkwall.”

Fenris just stared at her for a second before he pushed his own ale over to her.

Hawke picked up the offered mug, “Perhaps I should apologize.”

“While sober,” added Varric.

“Without grinning,” added Anders.

“And not staring at his chest,” added Fenris.

“On second thought,” Varric said, “Perhaps Broody should apologize and the rest of us will take Chuckles to the Blooming Rose.”

Hawke pushed her lower lip out at the dwarf, “I don’t like that elf. He’s small. And soft. Talks too much, too loudly, with no subtlety or discretion, or even a nice voice.”

“Okay. I’ll apologize and Broody will have sex with Chuckles.”

Fenris cleared his throat, “I don’t like the human. She talks too much, too loudly, with no subtlety or discretion.”

“Yes, but on me, it’s charming.” Hawke looked around at the others, “Right?”


	11. In Which Fenris Declares his Independance

He was free, now. After a fashion.

Hawke stood next to the body, close enough to nudge his leg, just in case he might be sleeping. Ketojan wasn’t sleeping.

The battle was long over, the other bodies had long since been piled up and set aflame, and still Hawke stood, staring at her new found, long lost friend and second greatest failure. She kept promising to protect people. She kept getting them killed. Bethany, Ketojan. A list of only two names where no list should be.

Anders stooped down to grab the mage’s shoulders, looking up at Hawke sympathetically.

“Leave him.”

The man sighed softly, “We can’t just leave him here to…”

“Leave him!” Hawke’s eyes flicked up from the corpse to catch Anders.

“Come on, Blondie. I think I saw some elf root over there…” Varric took Anders by the arm and lead him away before any real screaming could start. Fenris stayed behind, standing silently at Hawke’s shoulder and watching the landscape more than the fallen mage. Always on guard, always waiting for the next attack.

Several minutes passed before Hawke spoke again. She wasn’t talking to Fenris, not really, but it needed to be said, and he was standing there, “He could have attacked that sister. Could have attacked us.”

The elf gave over on watching the paths to watch Hawke, instead, but didn’t reply.

She never looked up, “He knew us a few hours, and he fought for us. Fought to protect us.”

Fenris’ eyes flickered down to the corpse then back up at her. He still said nothing.

“He didn’t deserve this. No one deserves this.” She dropped to her knees next to the body and started pulling at the heavy, chained pauldrons and collar, but there didn’t seem to be any obvious way of removing it.

“Hawke…”

“Help me,” she ordered, yanking now at the chains, her hands shaking.

“Hawke, I do not believe he’d want that.”

“That’s _bullshit!_ ” she yelled at the elf, her fingernails clawing now at the mask covering his face, the stitches holding dead lips closed.

“Hawke,” the elf took hold of her shoulder and she shrugged him off, “Hawke, he’s gone. Hawke!” Fenris bent down and picked her up bodily, pulling her away from the corpse. She struggled, elbowing him in the ribs before he dropped her and she backed up several steps.

She watched the elf, her eyes flicking from him to the corpse and back, as if considering bum rushing him to get back to the body. A long moment passed before she grunted in impotent frustration and started pacing. Back and forth, back and forth over the same six paces, a tiger in a cage only she could see, “Is that an option, Fenris?” Her hand swept forward, indicating the dead Qunari, “Is that the answer?”

The elf knew what she was asking, but chose not to answer that question, “He was a slave, Hawke. He wanted to be a slave. You were just the last person to hold his leash.”

Hawke didn’t stop pacing, but her eyes finally decided to settle somewhere -- on the elf, “Is that why you follow me, Fenris?”

“I am no slave,” he growled, warning.

“No? You follow me around, take my orders, wash off the blood, stay close, stand guard, watch me like an abused dog hoping this time the master will be nice. Where’s your leash, puppy?”

“I am no slave!” the elf roared, rushing her, his tattoos blaring into brilliance as he grabbed her shoulders. She flinched away from his anger, from the heat and raw power bleeding from his marked skin. He didn’t smile at her, though. Instead he just stared at her for the space of several heartbeats before he shoved her back, turned, and walked away.


	12. In Which The Arishok Takes on a Pupil

It was just after dawn when Hawke presented herself to the Qunari at the gate. She was freshly scrubbed, unarmed save for the little dagger at her back, and entirely alone. Fenris should have been here. Fenris was supposed to help her do things that terrified her. But she had run Fenris off in a fit of pique and now she had to do it alone. She had to prove, to herself at least, that she _could_ do it alone.

The man said nothing, just looked her over before he opened the gate and stepped to one side. She nodded anyway, as if at some command to be good, or be quiet, or don’t walk on the grass, and walked through, looking far more confident than she felt. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at the Arishok, presiding there on his bench in his compound in the docks of Kirkwall.

He looked her over as well, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, “Have you come for the tamassran, human?”

Hawke felt her face grow hot as she blushed, but she cleared her throat and tried to ignore it, “No, Arishok. I…” _I’m just here to start a war, no big deal_ , “I came to apologize. For my behavior the other day.”

“Parshaara,” the Arishok answered, barely moving, “It is done.”

Hawke tilted her head. She didn’t understand the word, but the intent was clear, she was being dismissed. She didn’t move, either.

“You’re still here, human.”

 _And you’re a brilliant little beast._ She didn’t say that outloud, either. Rather, she got right to the war starting, “I killed your men.”

The Arishok narrowed his eyes slightly, but gave no other reaction before speaking, “I heard. Impressive.”

Hawke raised her eyebrow. Impressive? She walked towards the stairs and lifted a foot before she was stopped by an unknown Qunari, one of the men lining the poor man’s excuse for a dias, stepping in front of her. Hawke ignored him, staring at the Arishok.

He watched her, his eyes still narrowed as if not quite sure what to make of her before he gave the slightest of nods. His man reached around Hawke, pulling her dagger out and tossing it to one side. He reached for her elbow, but she beat him to the punch by pulling her arm back and resting her hand, featherlight, on top of his.

While the man considered this development, she gathered the front of her robes in one hand and gave him an expectant look, not moving forward. If he was going to escort her, she was going to demand he do it properly.

Seeming to decide that whatever craziness she was pulling wasn’t liable to be fatal, he led her up the stairs, his hand held stiffly in front of her. He stopped at the penultimate step, letting his hand drop though he didn’t move back, still looming there at her side, a warning that didn't need to be spoken.

Hawke smoothed down the front of her robes and looked back to the Arishok, “The mage,” she started before pausing. She didn’t even know where to go from there. _Why did he have to be chained? Why did he have to die? Why am I such a threat to you that you would sew my lips together to stop me from talking?_ “He wanted to be returned to the Qun. So I let him go. They killed him.”

The Arishok tilted his head at her, “Good,” he said.

She waited, but nothing else was forthcoming. Finally she took a breath and asked the question in a soft voice, “Why?”

“You would not understand and I will not explain it to you.”

A flash of anger made her speak without thinking, “Who answers for the Qun if not you?”

That got their attention. The arishok stood up and another man slid forward from the right, leaving her now surrounded with hulking, horned men, “The Qun does not answer to you!”

She could feel her hands shaking, an uncontrollable trembling racking her back and shoulders. She knew she looked exactly as she felt, a frightened little girl shaking her fist at the great, uncaring darkness. She didn’t entirely care. This answer, she would have, “How else does a child learn if not by asking?” Her voice shook, wavering. She didn’t care about that, either. She could do this. She could do this, without Fenris to stand between her and the terror.

A bare second passed, motionless before the Arishok sat back down, his elbows again on his knees, not a trace of anger about him. This man took mercurial to previously unheard of levels, “Sit and be silent, human,” he said, “And learn something.”

The other two men moved away, leaving her alone at the top of the stairs. She looked around. There were no other chairs available so she bent down slowly and slid onto the top step, every movement calculated so as not to cause alarm. She got herself seated at the Arishok’s feet and looked up at him as he watched her. She let out the breath she had been holding when he looked away and seemed to forget her.

 _Who’s the dog, now?_ She relaxed into that thought. She deserved it.


	13. In Which Hawke Makes Nice

“You’re afraid of me.” Hawke had spoken before Fenris even got the door all the way open and he arched an expressive brow at her.

She stepped into the doorway before he could close the door on her and tried to slide past him. He put a hand on the doorjamb, blocking her path, so she stayed there, as if that were where she wanted to be, the damsel caught in the scary, yet alluring clutches of the hero in one of Varric’s saucy books.

“There’s a difference between fear and caution,” he answered and she waved a hand as if he were complicating the issue with petty details.

“You don’t watch me like a possibly abusive new master. You watch me like a dragon everyone keeps telling you is tame.”

“You cannot tame a dragon.”

Hawke smiled, leaning slightly into his arm, throwing the full weight of her substantial charm at him, “I know that. You know that, everyone knows that. But you seem to be the only one saying it. So you start to wonder, could you be wrong? Could I be a tame dragon? But how is that possible? And how could you ever really be sure?”

The elf heaved that sigh he used when he knew she was trying to charm him. A show of strength, that it wasn't working, that it wouldn't work, that he knew all of her tricks and he wasn't at all fooled, and his arm slid down the doorjamb to settle near her waist, anyway.

“If you were tame, you’d be in the Circle,” he countered.

“Putting a dragon in a cage doesn't make it tame, Fenris. Tame is only possible when there is no cage.”

He grunted in exhausted defeat and let his hand slip from the molding. Hawke leaned forward just enough to grace him with her most triumphant grin and slipped past. Round one to Hawke.

He closed the door behind her and turned around, ready for round two, “You’re afraid of me,” he threw her own words back at her.

Hawke puffed a silent laugh and sank low into one hip, “I strike you as the fearful sort?”

The elf smirked at her and she stood back up straight, her hand sliding towards her dagger. He looked pointedly at her hand, “You hide it well,” Hawke stopped moving and pursed her lips, but he continued before she could speak, “You’re afraid of what I represent. That if I had my way, all mages would look like Ketojan, and my way could be winning.”

Hawke tilted her head, “You wouldn't do that. The Chantry wouldn't do that.”

“How could you ever really be sure?”

Hawke bit her lip and shrugged her shoulders uncomfortably. The elf arched his brow at her again. Round two to Fenris.

She sighed and spun away from him, her hands waving as if this were all beside the point, “The thing is, I got the order all wrong.” She turned back towards him from a safer distance, “I ask you to follow me. I ask you to do things for me. I want you to clean the blood off, stay close, and stand guard, even though you have every reason not to trust me, because I’m reckless and I’m foolhardy, and I say things that shouldn't be said and I’m way too easily distracted by a pretty pair of eyes…”

“Shoulders,” the elf cut in.

“Those, too.” Hawke finally took a breath and let it out slowly, pressing her lips together, uncertain, “The only difference between me and Karl, or Ketojan, or Anders, or Merrill… Is you. You and the others. I’m free because you enable me to be. You didn't give me your leash. I gave you mine.” She shot him a quick look from under her lashes before looking down again.

Seconds passed in silence as Fenris stared at her. She fidgeted and shifted her weight under his gaze, waiting. Finally he took a breath, “I remain at your side.”

Hawke smiled sweetly at him, paused, then shrugged. “You’re free cause I have a soft spot for helpless elf boys.”

“Out.” He swung the door open, “Get out.”


	14. In Which Cullen Saves Hawke from Magic

The first time Hawke knew there was trouble was right after she slammed face-first into a granite pillar. She tumbled down to one side, her hand reaching up to cover her mouth and nose as she rolled, looking back. Several men, mages if the fireballs were any indicator, were standing in the middle of the gallows, queueing up more destruction and yelling something she couldn't understand over the chaos.

Shrieking, people running, templar recruits standing dumbstruck and slow on the uptake, their instincts yelling at them to run, their training telling them to stand and fight. Unsurprisingly, Fenris and Varric were the first back up to their feet and running for the group. Hawke struggled to her knees, pulling her hand away, covered in blood that was running out of her nose and down her cheek to drip off her chin.

The recruits firmed up their resolve and rushed in as their elders entered the fray, flash after flash of white heat sparked through Hawke’s eyes as the smites rolled in like thunder. She groaned and pushed on the pillar, looking around for Anders. There, in the middle of the melee, of course, the idiot. At least he wasn't doing anything flashy, and was covered a fair bit by the sheer noise and motion.

A hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her upright, then spun her around behind the pillar, holding her to the back by her sternum. She blinked, muddle headed and dizzy and looked around, “Stay down, Serah Hawke. We’ll take care of this one.”

Knight Captain Cullen. She looked up at him, his attention was focused on the fight. She could vaguely hear Varric yelling, and could practically smell Fenris’ glee as he cackled -- the elf was cackling, Maker help them all. She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes, waiting.

The templar’s thumb moved and she opened her eyes again. He was tracing a line, back and forth, a little arc the reach of his thumb, over her collarbone, down into the hollow, then back up and over to the chest. She held her breath, looking up at him again. He didn't even know he was doing it. Or if he did, he made no indication, still watching the fight with the detached air of a military man.

A horde of rampaging butterflies the size of elephants stampeded through her navel and she bit her lip to stop from making noise. Kill her, he was trying to kill her, it was the only explanation. She could feel it already starting, her heart throwing itself against her rib cage over and over and…

Hawke groaned, causing the man to release her and look down. She barely noticed, shoving a fist into her navel and pushing down hard as she hunched over. Her knees gave out and she started to slide down the pillar before the templar caught her, pulling her against his chest, worried hands shaking her shoulder, “Serah Hawke! Hold on, help is coming!”

She pulled uncertainly at his grip, streaks of terror shivering down her spine. Could they sense it? Could he sense her magic, this close? She didn't know and Maker help her, she didn't care. She stopped fighting and threw her arms around his shoulders, pressing against the cold steel of his breast plate, lost in the feel of strong arms and a broad chest and the scruff that rubbed against her cheek and lips.

She had known, once, what a man felt like, what it felt like to be so close to one. But then the blight had come, and taken everything, and she had forgotten. She had forgotten about men, she had forgotten about the feeling of being crushed against a broad chest, she had forgotten that she was a woman. She only remembered the driving need to protect her mother, her brother, herself, from poverty and starvation and the very man currently reminding her what men smelled like. _He’s a templar. He’s a templar. He’s a templar._

She didn't realize she was speaking out loud until he answered her, a gauntleted hand smoothing her hair down, comforting her, “That’s right. I’m a templar. I won’t let any mages hurt you.”

-=-=-=-

Hawke was the only one laughing, around the table in the Hanged Man, “That’s funny right? Cullen protecting me from the evil mages?”

No one answered until Varric finally set his mug down and sighed, “No, Hawke. That’s bloody tragic is what that is.”


	15. Revenge of the Drunk Lassie at the Gates

The three men filed into the office. Turner’s black eye had faded, the busted lip on the second man was gone, and while Frank took a seat with the others, he still refused to do anything but sit at attention and stare at the wall behind Cullen’s head.

“You had something to report?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, see… The little lassie? The one what … caused the goat stampede?”

Cullen leaned back in his chair, staring at Turner. Those goats were at best two feet high. Hardly a stampede, “Yes, I remember the ah… Goat stampede.”

Turner nodded, smiling, “Aye, yes, sir, she returned.” He sat back, a vaguely smug smile on his face.

Cullen waited, but Turner seemed to be done talking. He looked at Frank. No help there. The second man then. He smiled, too, “And?” Cullen finally asked.

Turner elbowed the second man who looked surprised, then with sudden realization start going through his pockets, “Chissik took a message, sir.”

“A… You took dictation for the drunk woman?”

Turner waved a hand while Chissik continued searching his pockets, “Oh, the lass wasn't causin any harm sir. And she’s a right beaut, if ya get ta know her. Real charmer, that one. Be surprised if she wasn't some highborn lady or like.”

Cullen settled his forehead against a couple of fingers. That headache was starting up again, that one behind his right eye that throbbed for days, “You took dictation for the charming drunk woman who was yelling at the gates?”

Turner cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, “Well, we couldn't let her in, sir. Not after the goat incident. And Frank was understandably concerned about the second lassie showin up to make good on her plunderin threats if we went outside, so she yelled. And Chissik wrote it all down.” He beamed as Chissik managed to find a small pile of unbound bits of paper, all with scribbled writing on them, “I think she’s sweet on you, sir.”

“I should call on her to begin courting. Did you happen to catch a name?” He stared at Turner, “No? Guess it was too much to ask.” He turned his glare on Chissik, “Well, then? What has my lady love bid you tell me?”

Chissik hurriedly shuffled bits of paper around and cleared his throat before he started reciting, precisely, in a flat voice, “Are you listening, Cullen, you big stupid man, you. I’m talking to you Cullen. Get out here and face me, you cowardly, skirt wearing, pretty boy.”

“And you say this woman is sweet on me?” Cullen deadpanned.

Turner waved his hand again, scooting forward in his seat, all barely contained excitement and fluttering breaths, “No, see, sir, that’s just an act, see? She’s afraid of her own feelings. If you was there, that’s when you woulda kissed her, see.” He elbowed Chissik and nodded, urging him on.

Chissik shuffled more paper before continuing in the same flat tone, “Well, you can keep your big arms and your shoulders and your bumps and ridges. There’s a whole compound full of ridges and lumps and lines and other stuff, and I can go there anytime I want and they’re all bigger than you, with more bumps and okay so the eyes aren't as pretty, but. Where was I. Oh yeah. And…” He trailed off and leaned over to Turner, whispering, “I didn't catch this word.”

Turner had been nodding knowingly, giving Cullen waggling eyebrows the whole time, “Eh? Eh, sir? Old Turner knows when a lassie needs somethin she ain't sayin.” He glanced down at Chissik’s paper, “Oh, yeah, see that wasn't a word, that was when she squealed.” He looked up at Cullen, “Squealin, sir.”

Chissik cleared his throat, going back to his paper, “Squeal. Let me down, put me down this second, Frances, or I swear to the Maker I will fondle your arse. Ow…”

“That’s when he dropped her, see,” Turner helpfully interrupted.

“What are you doing. You dropped me. I can’t believe you dropped me. That hurt,” Chissik flipped papers, “Squeal. That’s right, you sexy beast, growl louder. Wait. Don’t drop me. Don’t drop me. I’ll be good.” Chissik folded the paper silently and stuffed them back in his pocket. Turner was grinning at Cullen.

The Knight Captain stood up before Turner could make any more remarks, “Dismissed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everyone who left comments and kudos. I probably would have stopped posting this stuff the first day if it weren't for you guys egging me on.
> 
> All my <3s and I apologize in advance for the hell I plan to put you through.


	16. In Which Arishok and Hawke Reach an Accord

“You return, human.”

The Arishok didn’t seem entirely surprised by that. Then again, Hawke could probably have waltzed in naked while singing the chant to the tune of pirate diddies and the Arishok would not have been surprised, “It’s the only carnival of lurid man flesh in the city, how could I stay away?”

The Arishok stood up and started stalking down the stairs towards her. She cleared her throat, “That was a joke.” He didn’t reply, “Anders tells me that laughter is good for…” She looked around, no help was forthcoming, “Anger issues. Even Fenris laughs.” Still no reply, the great man still getting closer, “It’s not so much a laugh as a repeated, hard exhale, but I think it counts… As…” She finally shut up when the Arishok stopped in front of her and looked up at him, chewing on her bottom lip.

He watched her for a moment before he reached for her elbow, mirroring the actions of his man the last time she was there.  He never intended to grab it, though, simply waiting for her to put her hand on his, exactly as she had done before, too.  He captured her fingertips against his palm with his large, clawed thumb.  Hawke stared at him, surprised and a little afraid, but he wasn't even watching her.  The Arishok seemed to consider her hand before he lifted it to show it to her, “Explain this action.”

Her brows raised, glancing at the hands, “That's..."  She smiled awkwardly, "The proper way to escort a lady.  So… Frippery and nonsense, mostly.”

His eyes narrowed, “This has importance to you, and you tell me it is meaningless?”

“Well…” She shook her head, “If you were any other lord and I any other lady, I guess. It can be. Meaningless, I mean.” She shrugged her shoulders helplessly, “I suppose it has the meaning you give it.”

“What meaning do you give it?”

Hawke stared at the hands, still held up in front of her as if she wasn’t entirely sure, herself, “I suppose…” She looked up at him, then took a breath, “I agree to place myself in your care, and you agree that no harm will come to me while I’m there. An unspoken accord.” She nodded. That seemed fitting, or as fitting as she was getting for something she’d never really thought about, before.

The Arishok raised one brow at her, “How is there an accord if it is unspoken, and the meaning is unknown?”

Good question. It was just a thing. A thing men and women did. Why had she never thought about what it meant? Would mother know? “I guess… It’s implicit in the action, right?” She waved her free hand at the tableau, “I just gave you my hand. You could do all manner of nasty things with that."  She paused, sliding her fingers gently out from under his thumb and turning the hand over to expose her wrist, the back of her hand against his palm "And yet…”

Two claws closed lightly about the offered wrist, “I do nothing.”

“You hold it.” He looked up at her and she shrugged, “Perhaps it’s a human thing. Holding.”

“Seems madness,” he grunted before turning back towards the stairs, still holding her hand, “But as it is important to you, I acknowledge the accord.”

Hawke gathered her skirts and let him escort her up the stairs, “Good, cause… I was running out of words, there. I guess the only question now is what you would consider harm.” She glanced at him, “Don’t suppose you have a watch word…” He turned his head to stare at her, “Yeah, maybe we’ll just leave that one for later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little reference for the bull riders in the gallery.
> 
> *I edited this chapter to make the Arishok's actions a little more clear -- 2/5 6 PM Central


	17. In Which Hawke Flees

“Serah Hawke!”

Hawke tried not to flinch. Cullen. She really needed to stop visiting the Gallows. She took a deep breath, plastered a smile to her face and turned around, “Knight Captain Cullen. We were just…” _telling Thrask that his daughter turned into an abomination and I think Fenris’ trousers were somewhat tighter than normal when he cut her head off. How was your day?_ “...Running errands. For… Money.”

“I was hoping I’d see you,” he smiled at her with the accursed smile men got that only one person was supposed to see. He was giving her the _lover smile_. She contemplated running. Too late, his hand reached up to trace a line over her cheek with a couple of fingertips, staying carefully outside the shiner she had developed after tangling with one of his columns, “You seem better.”

Was she swaying, or was the room? She swallowed. “I… I’m… Uh…” His thumb traced down her jawline, “Feeling…” Fingertips down the back of her arm, “Things.” She coughed, “Better. Feeling better. Now. Much…” His fingers stopped in her palm and he lifted her hand to clasp it both of his, “More better… I mean... “ She trailed off with unconnected syllables dribbling out of her mouth like so much drool.

“Could we speak, a moment?” He was still giving her that smile, pulling her arm as he took a step back, trying to lead her away from her friends. Away from the path of righteousness. Away from all things good and holy and down a dark, dark…

“Kay,” she said, trailing after him. She got two steps before she jerked to a halt, “I’m leaving. Going away. The deep roads. Yeah. Gonna … Adventure… And stuff.” She stumbled forward another step, then back two, “With Varric. And Fenris. I’ll probably end up in bed with one or both of them.” She nodded, “Probably both. At the same time. You know me, can’t tie me down, no, sir.”

The templar furrowed his brows at her before looking over at the elf and dwarf. One glowered, the other grinned and winked. He cleared his throat, “Ah… If I've… offended you, Serah Hawke… Forgive me, I think I allowed… No matter,” he let go of her hand and Hawke could feel her chest caving in. She gasped in a breath and stayed still, looking down, “I hope that I will see you on your return. When I can approach you more appropriately. Forgive me,” he repeated, bowing and backing off to return to his post.

Hawke stared at his retreating back, unmoving, afraid to move lest she break and throw herself at him. _He’s a templar. A templar. A templar._ She gasped in a second breath. She turned very slowly. Took a single step away. Gasped in a third breath. Another step. Soon she was running, fleeing the look in his eyes and the despondent fluttering of her heart against it’s cage, crying for home.


	18. In Which I Narrowly Avoid a Fourth Relationship Tag Involving Hawke

“If anyone could survive the deep roads, it’d be you.”

“Oh, drunk guy,” Hawke cried, putting her hand over his. He set his free hand on top of that, and she added hers to the mix until they were squeezing hands together in a little huddle at Drunk Guy’s table. She looked up at him, the tears pooling in her eyes not entirely about missing him, but with the sort of sloppy sincerity only the very drunk can achieve, “I’d never pick some washed up has-been over you.”

He sniffled at the compliment and leaned closer, matching her drunken honesty, “And you’re my favorite Witch of the Wilds.”

Hawke managed a sweet, if slightly drippy smile, “Were you really a templar?”

He nodded, sitting up straighter, “‘Fore I was a warden.”

“Wanna have sex?”

Drunk guy coughed, “I uh… I think you should be in love for … that… Don’t you?”

Hawke tilted her head, “You did say I was your favorite Witch of the Wilds.”

He smiled at her and pulled one of his hands out of the pile to squeeze her shoulder, “And you are. But the other two were…” He waved his hand vaguely, “Evil.”

Hawke nodded sagely, “Somewhat better than evil. That’s the story of my life, drunk guy.”

“Sister.”

Hawke sighed and looked up at Carver before giving him a smile, “Baby brother.” He pulled a chair out and sat down across from them.

“So you and Varric are a given,” he started and she muffled a groan. She’d been dreading this conversation, “And Fenris.” Carver’s lips twisted bitterly. He wanted her to consider him as good as Fenris in the muscle department. And he was a good swordsman. He just lacked a certain pulling hearts out of chests and shrugging off magic and looking, in general, like the scariest motherfucker on the field.

Oh, and also? “No offense, brother, but Fenris has this obsessive need to stab anything that touches me. A trait I don’t think you share.”

“I’d stab anything that touched you.”

“I know you would, drunk guy.” Hawke squeezed his hand fondly, but didn’t look away from Carver.

Carver spared a glance for the drunk before looking back at his sister, “That leaves a spot open…”

“I was thinking Anders…” she tried to head him off at the pass, but he was ready for her.

“Doesn’t want to go.” He leaned over the table, “And you’re just as good a healer.”

No, no she really wasn't. She was an _adequate_ healer, but Anders had a passion for it she didn’t share. She was far better at throwing things around and setting things on fire. She chewed her lip and stared at her brother with a doubtful expression.

“You owe me this, sister.” Carver’s expression was dark and seemed to brook no argument.

She had known he blamed her for his life not turning better. He’d had to give up a lot to keep her out from under templar notice, but he’d rarely just out and told her that he considered her a burden he’d prefer to be rid of. She sighed and looked down at the table, “Mother is going to have something to say to that.”

“I’ll handle mother,” Carver said, standing up and smiling at her before he walked away.

Drunk guy stretched one arm, then let it drop around her shoulder as he leaned closer, “So I’m thinking maybe love isn’t all it’s…”

“Too late,” Hawke said, “I’m over it.”


	19. The Taming of the Drunk Lassie

“Cullen!”

Hawke stumbled into the courtyard, waving the flask she had stolen from Varric, “Knight Captain Cullen!” She spread her arms at the closed gates as if to challenge the doorway to a brawl, “Why be a Knight Captain?! Huh?! Leave the order! Give up the title! And if you can’t, then just swear you’ll love me! Just swear it and I’ll…”

She deflated slowly. She’d what? Ask the Arishok to fit her for a collar? She swiped the hand holding the flask over her forehead, “Maker, Cullen, why am I here?”

It was a rhetorical question. She knew why she was here. She had only to close her eyes to call back the tingles. A physical reaction invoked from nothing but the memory. She could still feel his arms around her, “I can still smell you, you bastard!” She leaned forward and clasped a hand to her chest, “It wasn’t supposed to hurt this badly!”

The great lock on the door banged and she started giggling, “Oh, boys boys boys…” She held up her arms. _Here I am, come and get me!_ “I’m afraid my associate couldn’t make it, this evening, she’s come down with a sudden case of monogamy!” She spun around, shouting at the empty courtyard, “With my brother! Yes! Thank you, Maker, that’s exactly the kind of joke my life was missing!” She rested her forearms on her head and rolled her hips side to side suggestively, “But if you think you can catch me this time…”

“I’m sure I can.”

Hawke spun around, “Fuck.”

Cullen arched a brow at her and she managed to look chastised as she corrected her statement, “I mean, Knight Captain Cullen, how pleasant to see you, I was just…” She waved the flask at the empty courtyard.

“Leaving a message?”

Message? She furrowed her brows at him before she shook her head, “Venting my impotent rage.” She smiled bitterly.

The Knight captain rolled his back up off the wall he had been leaning against and walked towards her, “Shouldn’t you be in bed? With Varric and Fenris?”

_Yes! Yes, that’s exactly where I should be! And that’s where you should think I am!_ She dropped her arms, her smile fleeing. She’d seen the look that produced the first time and she never wanted to see it again. She couldn’t. She looked down at the stones under her feet.

The cold metal of his gauntlet stung as he caught her chin with his fingertips, pulling her gaze back up, “Let me guess. You have a friend you can’t bare to tell that you might want to share a meal with me.”

A friend? Yeah, of a sort. She nodded silently.

“But you might be willing to risk that friend's anger, if a meal turned into… Something else,” his thumb brushed her lips.

Her lips parted as she sucked breath through them. It had nothing to do with his thumb. She shrugged, an awkward, gangly thing, apprehension mixed with alcohol.

His hand slid around the side of her neck to tangle in her hair as he stepped closer. There was a clang as she dropped the flask from suddenly nerveless fingers, but Cullen ignored it, cupping her cheek in his other hand, “My professional opinion is to make that decision after the meal.” He leaned towards her.

“Uh, sir? Captain Cullen?”

Cullen and Hawke both turned to look at the gate, otherwise unmoving. Three men were standing uncomfortably in the doorway.

“Should Chissik by writin this down? For the report?”

Two and two suddenly added up to four in Hawke’s head and she stood up straight, “You were taking messages? That’s so sweet!” She beamed brilliantly at them and lifted her flaskless hand as if to offer a toast, “Good job, men!”

The older of the three men grinned, bashful, and clasped his hands behind his back, “Aww, it was nothin, Lassie.”

“That will be all, Turner,” Cullen said is a low, vaguely murderous voice.

The three men vanished inside and closed the door behind them. Cullen turned back and slid towards her again but she put a hand on his chest, the spell he’d been casting now interrupted, “I’m still leaving.”

He dropped his hands again and took a step back, eyes narrow, “Do you plan to come back?”

“Yes.”

“Do you plan to sleep with Varric and Fenris?”

She grinned at him, “Bianca would get herself possessed just to kill me in my sleep.”

The Knight Captain watched her for a second before he reached up to touch her cheek again with two fingers, “Then I will see you when you return, Serah Hawke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the first bit is familiar, that's because it's a paraphrase of Romeo and Juliet, which I found particularly fitting:
> 
> _Romeo, oh Romeo. Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name and if thou wilt not, by thine sworn love, I'll no longer be a Capulet._


	20. In Which Hawke Needs a Bath

“Have I mentioned, in the last… say… couple of hours, how much I hate your brother?”

Varric sighed softly and rubbed a finger against one ear before he settled on the direct approach, “I’m really sorry about your robes, Hawke.”

Hawke stared at him, “Dragon shit, Varric.”

Varric spread his hands helplessly, “Look, you stand in front of the dragon, you get the fire breath, Hawke. You still have your eyebrows! Poor Junior…”

“Isn’t covered in dragon shit, Varric.”

“She speaks truly, dwarf.”

“You are not helping, Broody!” Varric held out his hands, “Look, okay, everyone just stop for a moment. Okay? We’re all under a lot of stress, it’s dark, there are darkspawn and golems and... “ Hawke’s expression wasn't getting any better, “It was a small room, Hawke! How was I supposed to know he’d… do… that?”

Hawke took a deep breath, then just let it all out again, “I’m going to go find water. Then, I’m going to throw myself in. If I get eaten on the way, I hope you've figured out _healing!_ ” her voice raised precipitously on the last word and she spun, stalking off in a random direction. She was not huffing. Marian Hawke did not huff.

“Don’t just stand there,” Varric growled at the other two men who had been wisely staying out of the way, “Junior, grab the bags. Broody, follow her. If she gets eaten we’re all in trouble.”

Marian turned a corner, following the vague glow that could be cause by lyrium, or the strange red lyrium, or… Was that? Yes, yes it was, “Lava, Varric!”

“That one has nothing to do with me, Chuckles!”

She would remind him again, the next day, when a golem took her staff and proceeded to beat her about the head and shoulders with it, and the day after that, as they huddled behind a column, catching their breath before the fight against the rock wraith continued. She stopped reminding him when they found the horde it was guarding, and a week later, when Carver collapsed mere hours from the surface, the dragon shit story had become the funny memory.


	21. In Which Hawke Ignores her First Warning

Bethany, Ketojan, Carver.

Hawke was sitting on the steps in front of Uncle Gamlin’s hovel, a little box on her lap. They all had their little boxes, the frivolous and silly things that they could never bear to leave behind. They had traveled from Lothering, survived the blight, crossed the sea, and taken their lumps in the year of servitude. Bethany’s and Carver’s boxes had outlived even the people who could name every object in them and why they had gotten their spot.

Hawke’s box, in comparison, was spartan, consisting of only three things -- the ribbon her father had given her on her tenth birthday, a deep red now faded in places to pale rose, a long braid of black hair held in a pale blue ribbon, and a shorter braid of the purest white tangled in a length of thin chain. Hawke added the newest member, a thin, very short lock of black hair matching Bethany’s, held together with the leather strapping from Carver’s sheath, “Sweet dreams, baby brother,” she murmured, near silent, “Take Bethany my love.”

She settled the lid carefully back onto the box and let her fingers curl around the edges, holding it closed and close, that most fragile of things that would probably outlive her, too. She wondered, momentarily, if anyone would be able to name all of the items in her box, when she was gone.

Mother was blessedly silent, now. She’d wailed, then wept, then sat silent and staring for several hours before she’d dropped into a restless sleep. She should probably take the opportunity to join the others at the Hanging Man, where they were raising toasts and telling stories and painting Carver in a better light than he himself probably would have, but she couldn't bear to move, just yet.

She sat, instead, listening to the sounds of the city, people haggling in the marketplace, children laughing and screaming, someone playing a lute, the breeze blowing in from the water. It might have been a comforting sound, once. Now, she listened with a resigned fury. Children should not be laughing, the sun should not be shining. She hated Kirkwall, in the moment, wanted to watch it burn. It was laughing at her. This city. It would kill everyone she loved, it would crush all her happiness, and it would wake up the next day with the sound of children laughing and the warmth of the summer sun.

 _Get out, before it kills you, too._ A passing thought, and then Hawke was standing up, stretching her back, and painting her charming grin back onto her features. There were still things to do.


	22. In Which Cullen puts Hawke on a Table

_I think I'm drowning; Asphyxiated_  
_I want to break the spell that you've created_  
_You're something beautiful; A contradiction_  
_I want to play the game; I want the friction_

 _You will be_  
_The death_  
_Of me_

\-- Muse Time is Running Out

-=-=-=-

It was a week after she’d returned that Cullen found her, holed up in the Hanged Man with Varric discussing melting down the gold coins found in the deep roads versus trying to find a buyer interested in ancient dwarven money.

Templars weren't terribly uncommon, but rarely were they quite so clean. Several patrons stared blearily at him as he strode in, took a single look around the room, then went to Hawke’s table. Hawke only noticed him when Varric suddenly changed what he was saying mid sentence and gave the man a large smile, all charm and good humor.

Hawke started. She didn't know how he knew she was back, or how he’d found her, but he was standing there across the table from her, one brow raised as if to admonish her for not going to him. She shot to her feet after a moment, knocking the chair back, “Knight Cap…”

“Cullen,” he interrupted, smiling, “Just Cullen.”

“Cullen, she repeated numbly, “We were just…” She came up with a blank, “Fencing loot,” she told the truth, instead, shrugging her shoulders, “Can I buy you a drink?”

“I’m on duty,” he waved a hand, then went silent again, watching her. She looked around the room, down at the dwarf, back up at Cullen. People were staring.

She grabbed his hand and pulled, “You wanted to discuss that… Job, thingy,” she grinned her money making grin and fled for the stairs, the templar in tow. Hawke pulled him into the first room she found, barking, “Out,” at the single occupant.

“If this is his room…”

“Oh, that’s just crazy guy. I’m…” She furrowed her brows, “I’m not actually sure he has a room.” She closed the door behind the fleeing man, “I think he’s just… ambiance.” She turned around to find the templar inches away and backed up against the door, knocking it with her heel. The templar followed, “I uh… I would have come to see you, but I… was… avoiding you.”

“I know,” he said, though he wasn't looking at her, his eyes caught on her neck, “You should tell you friend to come see me. I can ensure no one will get into trouble for harboring an apostate. I do protect the mages in my care, Serah Hawke,” He finally looked up at her eyes.

She stared at him, swallowing before she nodded, “I believe you.” She did believe him, too. She was sure he would never allow a mage to be mistreated. She was just as sure he wasn't omnipotent. He couldn't stop what he didn't know about.

His eyes slid back down to her collarbone and he lifted a hand, sliding the first finger under the hair that had gotten caught under her collar and pulling it away from her neck slowly, “I wouldn't want you to worry,” he murmured, his voice soft and far away, obviously not really paying attention to the conversation.

Hawke’s hand raised, sliding over the back of his gauntlet as he finished exposing her neck. His eyes flickered to land on the limb and he moved to catch it before she could pull it away, staring as if not quite sure what to do with it now that he had it. He was still talking, “I had it all planned. A little picnic, out on the coast,” his free hand skittered across her stomach before finding her waist and sliding around, tentative fingertips tapping at her lower back, “But how to get you there?”

She thought, later, that it was the gasp that did him in, or it could have been the twitch of her hips, pressing forward to find his. Either way, he broke. The cautious, halting touches vanished and he splayed his hand over her waist, pulling her tight to his chest.  He dropped the caught hand to curl strong fingers around the back her neck, then lifted her with one arm and spun, stumbling towards the one table in the room and setting her on top, his hips pressing, persistent but not demanding, against her knees until she spread her legs to let him in, “Maker, Hawke,” he mumbled against the skin of her neck where he had buried his face.

She could feel him twitching, every muscle taut and barely restrained as he went still suddenly, breathing deeply against her shoulder, fingers tangled in her hair and pulling gently, urging her head back, his other arm locked around her waist. Everything went still for several long seconds as she trembled against him, gasping in tiny shallow breaths before he pulled away slowly, “Come to me, tonight,” he said, his voice low and throaty, “Promise me.”

She nodded and his arm tightened, “Promise me,” he repeated, “No avoiding, no hiding. Let me do this right.”

“I promise,” Hawke whispered, and the templar pulled away, turning to stride out the door without looking back. She slid off the table and onto the floor, one hand pressed to her navel as if to keep the butterflies from breaking through the skin, or perhaps to keep them present.


	23. In Which Hawke gets Lost

_I wanted freedom; Bound and restricted_  
_I tried to give you up; But I'm addicted_  
_Now that you know I'm trapped; sense of elation_  
_You'd never dream of; Breaking this fixation_

_You will squeeze The life out of me_

\-- Muse Time is Running Out

-=-=-=-

Hawke had been expecting a hurried sneaking up back stairs, a bed, maybe some alcohol, the sorts of things men did when their aim was to appear proper, rather than actually be proper. Maybe she’d get a release, probably not, another hurried exit the same way she’d entered and then life would continue, the templar would have no more driving need to seek her out, and she would just be another of the nameless bodies that got passed around as stories to impress friends.

She hadn't been expecting a rug, covered in fruit and cheese, laid out in a small corner of the deserted gallows. A bottle of wine and candles flickering in the cool breeze blowing in from the sea hadn't been on the list, either. Hawke shifted uncomfortably in the shadows near the stairs down to the docks. He wasn't planning to bed her. This was courting. He’d been talking about courting her in the room at the Hanged Man.

“Maybe if you climbed the left wall, you could escape,” Cullen said from the shadows on the other side of the stairs.

Hawke looked over, narrowing her eyes, “I’m more of the blind panic, random direction kind of woman,” she replied softly, crossing her arms over her chest.

The templar stood up from his casual lean and slid into the dim moonlight, a smug smirk playing on his lips. This peacock didn't need to prove he had the longest tail feathers, but would happily preen them. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, covered in a plain linen shirt and pants, the fabric loose and thin over his frame, though he still wore his sword at one hip. He pulled a hand away from her chest and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, walking her towards the rug, “I figured out how to get you to the picnic.”

”Yes, you’re a sneaky, shifty-eyed sort. Have you considered a change of profession? Cat burglary, perhaps?”

“It wasn't that hard,” he smiled, “The only time you stop running is when you’re too busy trying to be subtle about burrowing into my chest.” He arched a brow at her and released her arm before dropping down into a casual lounge on one side of the blanket, his weight on his hip and one elbow.

Hawke stood at the end of the rug. Her eyes flickering back and forth between the templar and the empty side, all the way over there, on the other side of all the fruit, “Well. Blind panic, random direction, you know…” She cleared her throat, “Oops, that’s a chest.”

Cullen nodded at that, picking a grape off it’s stem, “You wouldn't believe how often trainees end up nuzzling in the middle of combat practice,” he popped the grape into his mouth and sucked on it, looking up at her, all smiles and congenial conversation.

She chewed her bottom lip, looking back at the other side of the rug. Cold and empty. Back to the templar. Warm and inviting. “I imagine that’s a…” Cold and empty, “Daily struggle. What with the…” Warm and inviting, “Sheer number of chests to run into.” Cullen was rubbing a hand over the rug in front of him, as if show how soft it was. “Maybe you could teach me how to avoid that.”

Cullen looked up at her from under his brows, “Never,” he said simply, sliding his hand away from the rug and reaching for her. _I’m so doomed._ Hawke went down to her knees and crawled into his waiting embrace.


	24. In Which I Remind you that I did Apologize for This

_Bury it_  
_I won't let you bury it_  
_I won't let you smother it_  
_I won't let you murder it_

 _And Our time is running out_  
_Our time is running out_  
_You can't push it underground_  
_You can't stop it screaming out_

_How did it come to this?_

\-- Muse Time is Running Out

-=-=-=-

It wasn't nuzzling.  Or even cuddling.  Hawke wallowed.  She rubbed her forehead against his chest, then her cheek, her lips and chin, her neck, the top of her head.  She alternately clung, fingernails digging into his skin, and swiped repeatedly at his side to urge him closer.  She wriggled and squirmed and writhed and tried to burrow farther underneath his side.  She spent a good couple of minutes with her ear pressed to his chest and listening to his heartbeat.

Then she rolled over and started on her other side, reaching up over her head to cling to his arm and shoulder.

The templar, for his part, endured.  He held her lightly, looking at the top of her head, his expression swinging from bemused grin to near panic to burning heat, to laughter and trying to untangle her, "Hawke, Hawke," he said breathlessly, "I'm not going anywhere."

"Lies," she mumbled into his elbow before rolling again to face him, pressing close to his heat, fingertips carefully memorizing every muscle in his back.

He chuckled, brushing her hair back from her face and running his fingers through the dark strands, "Slow down, love.  There's time."  She relaxed slightly and pulled her head back to look up at him, her eyes lidded, blissful.  He reached over her to grab another grape and popped it into her mouth, smiling.

"I was thinking," he said, picking up a lock of her hair and spinning it around to watch the slow spill and gentle arch, "I mean… I don't know what your plans are, now that you've returned, the conquering hero of the deep roads…"  She pulled back a little more.  He was avoiding looking at her, "But I have some time saved up…"

The future?  Hawke bit her lip and looked down at his chest.  Did they even have a future?  What would happen if he found out the truth?  He was still talking, but Hawke wasn't listening, anymore.  That terrible hollow feeling had returned to her chest, a sick longing she couldn't even describe let alone alleviate.  Finally she pulled back, pushing up to her knees.

The templar just watched her, a small, almost sad smile on his lips, "Blind panic, random direction?"

Hawke stared at him, his face blurry through unshed tears.  She blinked quickly to clear her sight then whispered, "Run away with me."

Cullen furrowed his brows, sitting up and resting his forearms on his knees, "Run away with you?"

She nodded, licking her lips, "I'm rich, we could go anywhere, do anything.  We could be free."

The templar looked down before looking back up, "I have a duty, Hawke."

Her cry of frustration cut his words short and she leapt to her feet, "Then pretend!"  She paced a few steps away, then turned and stalked back, "Pretend.  Just for tonight.  No duty, no honor, no order, no family, no obligations, no responsibility.  Just…"  She held out her arm, reaching, "Just take my hand and run."

A long second passed.  He took her hand, and they ran.

Out of the gallows, down the great stairs into the docks, past the Qunari compound, dodging right at the fork, leaping down steps.  They ran all the way to the end of the docks where the dark water met the midnight sky and it could have been the end of the world.  He caught her at the edge, spinning her around and lifting her up to his chest.

That's when she saw them.  The group of bandits.  She'd cleared them out, before, but her lack of prowling the streets at night had left a void that plenty were willing to fill.  They were a small group, but Cullen didn't have his armor, and only the single sword between them, "Cullen," she said softly, tapping on his shoulder.

He set he down and turned, drawing his sword, his free hand finding her waist and pushing her farther behind him, "Stay here," he murmured before he released and walked forward.  He tried to introduce himself, attempted to remind them that a member of the orders wasn't the perfect choice of target, but they were having none of it.

The man in front, a slightly skinny, haggard looking man with pale skin and lank blonde hair, swiped at the templar with his dagger, "Kill him.  Bring the girl, she'll fetch a nice price."

Just like that, they swarmed, several going down in quick succession under the practiced, deadly sword of the templar, but it didn't matter.  Hawke could see another group running to join the fray, a couple of the first group sidling around his strikes to get to his back, to get to her.

 _What do I do?  Maker help me, what do I do?_  Hawke stood frozen to the spot, staring at Cullen's back.  Why was she always playing dice with the Void?  The void always won.  The templar was surrounded, and it was now or never.

Hawke raised her arms, sparks leaping from her fingertips as she took a deep breath, pulling in power, wrangling it into the form she wanted, and when ready, she yanked her arms down, bolts of power ripping through the crowd at the same instant, knocking men to the ground, sending others reeling in confusion from the sudden blinding light.  Before they'd even finished falling she threw her hands forward, calling forth a rush of flame that exploded in all directions.

In moments the small group scattered, a few of the smart ones ran shrieking off the dock into the water, more died while they stumbled around, waving their hands, trying to outrun the fire.  The rest took off, apparently deciding that a templar with a pet mage was definitely no easy target.  Soon the docks were empty again, save the few smouldering corpses lying around the templar.

He had ducked when the chaos erupted and now he stood slowly, looking around at the bodies before he turned slowly to look at her.

Hawke dropped her hands, staring, her heart in her throat and tears streaming down her cheeks.  She waited.

The smite tore through her, a ton of steel cable suddenly snapped and whiplashing through her skull.  She stumbled to one side, then went down to her knees, gasping for air.  She was…  She had been doing something… What… She looked up, trying to find her bearings, panic clawing it's way up her throat.  Where was she?  What happened?  She found Cullen, staring at her, but he didn't seem to recognize her.  "Cullen?" she asked plaintively before another brilliant flash of light sent her tumbling into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that's been haunting these last chapters: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QfwEUzzDtzo
> 
> And this is where we start a slight detour from canon.
> 
> I'll sit down quietly, now, so you can yell at me all proper like.


	25. In Which Hawke has a Rude Awakening

Hawke's head hurt. Her head hurt, and someone was fussing at her, plucking and adjusting and otherwise making it impossible to sleep, "Go away, Carver," she mumbled.

_Carver's dead, remember?_

She opened her eyes. A grey stone wall. This was not her tiny room in the hovel. She'd never owned a pink rose patterned quilt, either, come to think of it. Where in the void?

_Cullen put you down like a rabid dog, remember?_

Hawke shot up in the bed before groaning and leaning forward, her hands going to her head to try and stop her brain sloshing around in protest.

"Oh, the Captains little pet finally decides to join us. Get up, girl." Someone kicked the little single bed she was sitting in.

Hawke looked around, moving her head gingerly, lest her brain detach again. A young lady, in a templar uniform, holding a clipboard. An elven servant who had apparently been the fussy one. She was in a cell. The gallows. The gallows used to be a prison.

_No, please, Maker, no._

Tears filled her eyes and ran unimpeded down her cheeks. She complied numbly as the elf got her standing and started pulling off her robe. Her eyes were stuck on the door, the wooden door with a little window in it and iron bars. She was dreaming. She was still dreaming. She had to be.

The elf was lifting her arms one at a time, then turning her around as the templar examined her naked body and made notes on her clipboard. Hawke tried to catch her breath, "Cullen…"

"Captain's got more important things to do than deal with apostate bitches, girl," the templar cut her off, though she mostly seemed entirely uninterested than actually malicious.

When the woman had finished making her strange notes, the elf pulled a new robe over her head. A novice robe. Hawke stared at the elf, wide eyed before transferring her gaze to the templar, "I don't… What…" she wasn't even sure what she was trying to say.

The templar tilted her head before she sighed, her voice softening slightly, "Just follow orders and you'll be fine, girl. They've decided not to execute you."

Hawkes stared at the templar, just this side of entirely unresponsive. Cullen had decided not to execute her. Was that a favor? A bit of a nod to whatever affection he'd had?

The templar nodded at the elf, who scampered off and escorted Hawke to the door. Outside, two more templars were waiting and they fell into step behind Hawke as she followed the woman, "Where are you taking me?"

"Already got your blood, all that's left is the harrowing."

Something was wrong with Hawke's breathing, she sucked at the air but couldn't seem to fill her lungs. She was making funny, high pitched noises from her chest. They already had her blood. She was being taken to the harrowing, where a templar would hold a sword to her throat and…

Hawke's knees went weak and she stumbled before backing up. The two men behind her caught her by the arms without even losing step, dragging her forward, "Nononononono…" That could have been her voice, or possibly someone elses. This was a nightmare. This was a nightmare and she would wake up.

She struggled, yanking on her arms and pulling back, her feet sliding out from under her as she fell backward, slipping from the grasp of the two men. She rolled to one side and was halfway back up to her feet, already sprinting before something slammed into her side, knocking her into the stone wall with enough force to empty her lungs in a sudden rush.

She went down hard on the white streaked flooring with the second man landing on her back a second later, "Fucking apostates," she heard him grumble as he got a fistfull of her hair, yanked her head back, then slammed her face into the marble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: In which I realize that both rape and torture are canon, so a little gratuitous violence doesn't require a tag change.


	26. In Which Cullen Loses It

In the world of Kirkwall mages, Hawke was privileged. She lived in the relative lap of luxury, a silver spoon permanently grafted to her mouth. The templars would strip her, drag her, toss her around, trip her, knock her down, slam her face into the floor, split her lip, and blacken her eye, but they would not kill her. Not without getting the nod from the Knight Captain.

She was standing behind the chairs in his office -- apostates did not sit in the presence of the Knight Captain -- watching him nervously. He had thus far refused to look at her. He was leaning back in his chair, staring intently at the coin he was turning in his fingers, tapping it against the desk and letting his fingers slide down the faces only to pick it up, let it rotate around, then tap it against the desk again.

Awkward, unpleasant seconds passed before he finally said something, his voice a tightly controlled politeness -- a demanding headmaster with a particularly recalcitrant pupil, "I understand you've caused some difficulties in the harrowing."

"Blind panic, random direction," Hawke said softly, willing the man to look up, to see her, to recognize her, to smile his lover's smile at her.

It almost worked. A tinge of remembrance colored the hint of a smile, and he did look up at her. Then his face darkened, his brows furrowed, his lips pressing into a hard line, as if she were an imposter. A trickster who had no right to wear that face, to speak in that voice, to repeat those words.

His voice had an added iciness to the formality as he spoke again, "You've been given a reprieve from execution because of your past actions on behalf of the order…"

That flash of anger, always getting her in trouble, "I saved your life."

"For your own reasons!" The templar slammed his hand against the desk as he stood up, knocking his chair back with a crash. Hawke flinched and took a step back as he circled the desk towards her, her brows furrowed in confusion. Her own reasons? She certainly didn't remember asking for coin, afterwards.

Cullen's lips twisted bitterly, "You certainly wouldn't tell me you were maleficarum. A blood mage."

Hawke felt punched in the gut, she pushed the breath out of her langs and put a hand to her stomach, staring, but he wasn't done, yet, "No? Any admissions to make, apostate?"

Her face twisted in pain and she backed away from him, bumping into the wall and doubling over, "Maker, Cullen, No!"

"Knight Captain!" he yelled at her, following her towards the wall, "You think I don't have experience with blood mage games? You think I don't know all the tricks?!" He was inches from her face, now, yelling at top volume.

Hawke had always been afraid of Cullen as a templar. She had never, before, been afraid of him as a man. The intimate knowledge of just how little she could do if things went badly suddenly hit her and she went down to her knees, holding her hands up, "Please, Knight Captain!" She was crying freely, practically begging, she didn't care, "Please!"

Cullen stopped, breathing deeply several times before he spoke again, his voice somewhat calmer, "If you do not take the harrowing, they will make you tranquil and I will let them."

Hawke didn't look up, her eyes squeezed shut, shaking. A second passed before the man knelt down in front of her, pushing her arms out of the way to cup her face, forcing her to look up at him. Her hands went to his forearms instinctively, gentle, featherlight, soothing. He ignored them, "Take the harrowing, Hawke. Cooperate and take the harrowing, and I swear I will take care of you."

Hawke nodded slowly, too frightened to speak.


	27. In Which Hawke is Truly Harrowed

One day, Hawke supposed, she would figure out that what she thought Cullen meant, and what he actually meant didn't, in any way, relate. She stopped at the door to the Harrowing chamber, staring. Cullen was standing next to the lyrium, sword in hand. He was going to take care of her by personally removing her head.

Granted, she supposed that was better than some novice who might have to hack at her neck several times before they got it, getting blood and gore all over those shiny templar breastplates, but she wasn't entirely sure she would care, at that point. A bit of a mess seemed like the least she could leave behind.

She took a breath and walked forward, stopping across from the templar and looking up at him. An elf, the first enchanter she thought, was launching into what sounded like the beginnings of a well-rehearsed inspirational speech, so she tuned him out.

A minute passed without a single acknowledging glance from Cullen and the first enchanter was still talking. What in the void was he going on about? "Don't get dead. I think I got it," she cut him off, followed by a single snort from the back of the room that she doubted anyone would fess up to making.

He gave her a disappointed look but waved his hand, "Well, since you obviously know all there…" She reached out and grabbed hold of the lyrium.

-=-=-=-

"YOU HAVE COME, MORTAL." Hawke winced and covered her ears, looking up (way up) at the monstrous spirit standing in front of her. The thing looked down, then suddenly flickered and reappeared a more normal height, the booming voice replaced as well, "Wait. I know you."

The spirit flickered again then reappeared as a good looking man in a classy Fereldan-styled outfit, "Yeah," he nodded, pointing a finger at her, "You're Hawke!" He suddenly broke into a grin and tapped his chest, "I possessed Olivia! That templar's daughter!"

"Oh!" Hawke said in fake recognition, then furrowed her brows, "That didn't work out so well for you."

"Eh. Win some, you lose some." He shrugged, then stuck out a hand, "I'm Fizzgig."

Hawke looked down at the hand, then back up at Fizzgig, "You don't really expect me to take that, do you?"

"Aaah!" he grinned, as if she's caught him in some good-natured pranking, pointing at her again, "You're too smart for me!"

A couple of chairs and a table, complete with mugs of dark ale, appeared behind him and he sat down, crossing his legs, "Aren't you a bit old for the novice gig?"

She tilted her head, staring at the demon, then the table, then the empty chair, "What?"

Fizzgig shrugged, "You are doing a Harrowing, aren't you?"

Hawke's eyes widened and she sat down in the empty chair, "How do you know that?"

The demon spread his hands before adjusting the cuff of one sleeve and brushing at some imaginary lint, "You're really here. That means blood or lyrium." He looked up at her, "You don't smell like blood, and there's no one around here worth dispossessing."

She just stared at him for a minute, processing the implications of what he'd just said. Her brain revolted before she got to the conclusion and reverted to trivial matters, "You're not going to try and possess me?"

Fizzgig arched a brow, "No offense, Hawke, baby, but you're not exactly long term investment material."

Hawke felt a stab of absurd rejection and sat up straight, "What's wrong with me?"

"Have you met the men you're attracted to?" Fizzgig held up a finger, "The knight captain of the Kirkwall Templar Order," a second finger joined the first, "That elf I'm pretty sure was sporting some major chub when he took my head off -- Ow, by the way -- oh and lest we forget…" He spread his arms as if this were the grand finale, "The Arishok. Of the Qun." He looked at her sidelong, "Really? A blight bear wouldn't have been more cuddly?"

Hawke blinked, her mouth working soundlessly.

The demon smiled again, "I know, I know, 'How could you possibly know so much?'" he mock-squealed in a high pitched voice, "Well, I consider it my job to know all the movers and shakers of the fade, doll, and you're definitely a shaker." He looked her over with an obvious appreciation.

Her brains started up again suddenly and she asked the question she didn't really want the answer to, "If you know this is a harrowing, why are you here?"

Fizzgig leaned back in his chair, a long, slow smile spreading over his face as if she'd asked the magic question. He almost looked proud, "It's a meet and greet, pet. A little networking, set up some contacts, get some quality leads to close on, later." Her eyes got wide and he leaned over the table towards her, sharing with her a precious secret, "No one but the hopelessly incompetent or suicidal fails their Harrowing, anymore, baby girl."

"What exactly are you a demon of?"

His brows raised and he flashed her a brilliant smile, "Marketing, kitten."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fizzgig is, of course, the name of the little dog thing in The Dark Crystal.


	28. In Which Hawke Bears Witness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING
> 
> This chapter contains non-graphic but heavily implied off-screen rape. If you want to skip it, all you need to know is that some templars are not nice people.

Something woke Hawke, into darkness, the tiniest bit of light bleeding from the door to her cell. A noise? She wasn't sure. She sat up slowly and rubbed a hand over the back of her neck. It felt sore, but whole, and that was progress, right? She crawled to her feet and padded barefoot over the stone floor to the door.

She went up on her toes to peer out into the hallway, dimly lit from the lanterns placed at regular intervals along the walls. The hall was deserted, but she heard the noise again -- a muffled cry followed by a slap, an angry man's voice.

Her brows furrowed and she tried the door, she was surprised when it opened easily. She swung the door open just enough to peer out into the hallway, chewing her lower lip. Something told her being out and about in the middle of the night was a hanging offense around Kirkwall.

More noise, movement, cloth… grunting? Oh maker. She stumbled out of the door, her eyes wide in panic. This was bad, this was bad and she had to stop it, but how? Confrontation would, at the very least, expose her to Cullen's rage and betrayal again if they didn't just forget and kill her, instead.

She looked around, her eyes falling on one of the hanging lanterns. It had oil in it. She could knock it down, start a fire. She slunk down the hallway silently, turning nervously to check behind her, "You can't help her, child," a soft voice from the door next to hers.

She ducked against the wall as her heart tried to throw itself out of her throat. Tiny, wrinkled hands were curled around the bars in the window, but she couldn't see a face. Hawke checked the hallway again, up and down, every door or couple of doors, most but not all, occupants holding the bars to their windows in the same manner. Why weren't they doing something? The old woman was talking again, her voice even softer now that she had Hawke's attention, "They'll just try again, tomorrow, when your door will be locked."

So, what? Do nothing? Not an option. Hawke stood up, answering in a harsh whisper, "We could make a report. Tell the captain. He'd never allow…"

"That's worse," the old woman cut her off, her hands loosening, then tightening on the bars, "You think they won't retaliate, child? They'll find a reason to make her tranquil, and have her anyway. They've done it before. If you want to help her, go back to your room and forget."

Hawke stared at the hands before looking down the hall towards the soft sounds of an assault in progress, "I can't just do nothing."

"Nothing is exactly what you can do. Will do, if you want her to have anything left." A hint of anger entered the voice, "It happens to all of us, eventually, girl. What do you want us to do when they come for you?"

Hawke covered her mouth with a hand, she felt sick, breathless with rage and helplessness. Her gaze lingered on the empty hallway, then back on the old woman's hands, still clinging white knuckled to the bars. She made a soft groan of frustration and ran back to her room, closing the door silently.

She paced, trying not to hear but unable to block it out. Eventually she went back to the door, her hands sliding around the bars in a mirror image of the old woman, and they all waited, a silent vigil.


	29. In Which Hawke Protects Hawke

Post harrowing, Hawke was mostly left to her own devices. She was given a quick tour by a harried looking novice, who also claimed to know all the best places for corner quickies, but didn't point any of them out -- perhaps that knowledge required a tip, which Hawke didn't have on her. She wondered what mages used as money, in a circle. She'd have to find out.

She was supposed to meet with the first enchanter in the afternoon, but she didn't go, wandering the halls looking for Cullen's office, instead. She remembered, vaguely, being dragged there after her harrowing stunt, but it had been a blur of flooring that all looked the same.

Eventually she stumbled upon a gate to a courtyard that looked familiar, guarded by two templars. That was promising. She put on her best overworked message carrier look and tried to walk through, only to be shoved back with a rough hand, "Mages in there."

Hawke took a couple of steps back and considered the templar before she looked down at her feet and hunched her shoulders, murmuring softly, "The captain called for me to… attend him, ser."

The man snorted, "If you think you're the first bint to try that, you're tragically mistaken."

"I think that's the girl the captain brought in," the second guard said, looking at the first.

"And if he wanted her in his office, he'd have said something," the first retorted before giving Hawke another nudge, "Off with you, now."

Hawke sighed softly. This was going to hurt. She threw a punch, catching the guard in the stomach and bringing his head down far enough for her to get an arm around it, holding on for dear life, "Give up the gold and no one gets hurt!"

The man stood up straight, lifting her off the floor when she didn't release his head and stumbled backwards, spinning around. The second man rushed forward to help but Hawke managed to kick him, knocking him back into the courtyard with a yell.

It was a glorious ten seconds that inevitably ended with blood and tears, and half a minute after that she was being dragged back to Cullen's office. She had just enough time to reflect how everything always had to be done the hard way before she was shoved inside, the guard telling Cullen about her attempted piracy. Soon enough, they were alone.

She was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, her legs too unsteady with adrenaline to hold her. Cullen was not talking to her, again. "We have to stop meeting like this, people will think you're kinky," she said, watching him.

"Exactly what game are you playing, here, Serah?" Talking, but not looking at her. At least he wasn't yelling.

"They're afraid to hurt me, cause they think you're sweet on me. This is just the price of admission to the templar ride," she said, pulling a leg up to press tentative fingertips to her ankle. Not broken, thank the Maker.

He stared at her, and she thought he might start with the icy bitterness again, but instead he just ground his teeth, "And what is it you need?"

"Nothing. Just need to stay here for half an hour." He stared at her and she tilted her head, "And leave my panties behind when I go." His face was turning a remarkable shade of apocalypse, "What do you think, the floor by your desk, or dripping artfully out of your pocket?"

He exploded out of his chair, eyes wide and angry, "I would never take advantage of a…"

"I know," she said, cutting him off, now he just looked confused, "I just need your men to think you would. So do you, if your promise to protect the apostate I knew of meant anything." He had gone back to silent staring, "Some of your templars like to rape people."

"Who? Give me their names."

"I don't know their names. I don't know how many of them are, I don't know what they look like, I don't know who the victim was, and even if I did, no one would tell you anything." She laughed, suddenly, possibly a little hysterical, "Cause you don't make noises like that without people hearing. So a great big old number of the templars are complicit, if not involved, and you can't afford to dismiss every templar who might have ever been on night duty, so there's gonna be someone left to make sure someone pays dearly for ruining their fun."

Cullen's face had softened by degrees, and now he was sitting back down, looking at the top of his desk. He knew he couldn't protect everyone, too, he just wished he could. But he could protect her, and Andraste preserve her, Hawke was the only person Hawke had the wherewithal to save.

A long pause before the templar answered, "I will… Put it around that I've taken you as a mistress. But the panties stay on," he looked back up at her.

She smiled sadly, "I would never take advantage of a templar under my care."


	30. In Which Hawke Writes Letters Home

~~Dear Fenris,~~

~~Someone told me the other day, that I was attracted to three men, which is funny, because I only knew of two of them. But it got me thinking~~

-=-=-=-

Dearest Mother,

The good news is that we no longer need fear the templars. At least not for finding out I'm a mage. I've passed the Harrowing, ~~and they tell me I can have visitors if I stop causing trouble.~~ I cannot currently have visitors. I'll miss you, mother. You'll stay in my thoughts.

Marian

-=-=-=-

~~Dear Fenris,~~

~~I hope this letter finds you well. It occurs to me that I've never seen you exchange letters, so perhaps this will be a pleasant~~

-=-=-=-

Arishok,

I promised to return after my excursion to the deep roads. I have been unavoidably delayed. I am sending a messenger with a present I brought back for you. Fenris told me they were special, though I do not know what for. Perhaps, someday, you can tell me.

I do not do this in the hopes to obligate you into a deal, by the way. The truth is, the dragon and I had a bit of a disagreement, so I hacked his head off with a rusty axe I took from a darkspawn corpse. As I have no further use for the head after avenging the slight, I am giving it to you.

It's not a threat, either. Promise.

-=-=-=-

~~Fenris,~~

~~I like you, do you like me? Please check one box:~~

-=-=-=-

Dear Varric,

I'm in the circle.

Please ensure that Fluffybutt and Daisy are fed, and don't let Blondie piddle on the carpet.

My love to Bianca,  
Hawke

-=-=-=-

Fenris,

The dragon has been caged. I regret I will not be there to help. Live well.

Red


	31. Interlude

At first, she had visitors every day they could come. Her mother, her uncle Gamlin, Varric and Fenris and Aveline, Isabella once or twice. Merrill even skittered in once, looking like a cat in a dog house. Anders didn't come, and when he was brought up, Varric only explained that he was 'blue' about the situation. A tactful way of telling her that Justice was not on a very tight leash, since the news.

First Gamlin stopped coming, then Aveline sent her regrets, though she kept writing letters. Her mother went from three times a week to twice a week to once a week, to once a month. Varric assured her, every time, that they were going to get her out, but after years and no movement, they stopped talking about that.

She took up needlepoint, something to keep her from going crazy when she was locked in her cell, at night, when another mage became an abomination, when blood magic was suspected of being practiced, sometimes no reason was given. She made wall hangings with quotes from the Chant, throw pillows with pictures of baby animals, roses and ribbons, and other stuff she hated, but her mother loved. She would send them off as she finished them. They had served their purpose, kept her from finding a demon of her own to end the interminable time.

She stood silent vigil with the others, every time, once or twice a week, staring with dull eyes at the wood of her door. Once, she'd heard a scream, but it had cut off, and there was silence. It turned out one of the young novice girls had gone abomination the night before and had to be put down. Of course. Yes, very sad. A pity she wasn't stronger. Hawke mumbled all the correct replies in public and did her needlepoint in private and dreamed of Fizzgig at night.

Sometimes he wore Cullen's face, sometimes the Arishok, other times Fenris. He would curl long fingers over her shoulders and whisper in her ear and swear that he only wanted to see her smile, that he remembered her smile, that she had a brilliant smile, while his fingertips slid down her navel, around her hips, over the swell of breast. She would wake, sweating and panting and raw with hunger, and she reveled in it. She felt alive, aching and empty and twitching. She felt something. She could still feel. She never asked the demon if he knew that his resisted temptations gave her the strength to keep resisting. She had the uneasy feeling that he did.

Hawke stopped, and the world keep spinning. Change was something that happened outside these stone walls, in the world of people. She was a mage.

Varric and Fenris were the only constant anchor. Varric was the brother Carver never wanted to be. She asked Fenris, once, why he kept coming, he would say only that caged dragons were still dragons, then merely shake his head if asked to elaborate. Once, in a particularly bad week, she had told him to go to her mother's house, to find her box, to remember every item in it, to remember their names. He'd been confused, but had come back the next time with her red ribbon tied around his arm, and every time after. So he would remember to remember, he said.

Cullen came to her room, once a week, every week. He sat in the chair at her desk and read while she did her needlepoint. He would watch her sometimes, with a look that made her heart ache. A look that said he remembered her smile, too. And every week, the same conversation repeated over thousands of variations, and still no answer to the question of her personhood.

The conversations ended abruptly one day in late summer, when the rain came.


	32. The Call of the Void

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING
> 
> This gets really dark, really quickly. Nothing here is even a little healthy. Cullen and Hawke are going very bad places, together. Skip this if you need to, take care of yourself.

Kirkwall summers didn't really end, so much as take naps in the winter, but the hot part, the part that made flesh sticky and the weight of the air oppressive, that was clockwork. Hawke was lying in her bed in her windowless room, held down by the thick humidity denying her oxygen, when she heard the first rumble of thunder.

She sat up, looking at the ceiling, entranced, waiting. Soon, there it was, the steady rhythm of rain hitting stone. Hawke followed it, barefoot, wearing nothing but her robe and a single thin shift in some parody of appropriate attire. The hallways were empty, silent but for the call of rain and the soft slap of her footsteps. The hallway bottomed out into an arched gate, leading to a small inner courtyard, round with a single bench, not a bush or slice of green in sight, but the door was open, and water was bouncing off the stone, leaving an ankle high mist.

The guard looked at her, but didn't say anything. None of them said anything to her anymore. If they needed her to do something, someone was dispatched to find the knight Captain. He was possessive of his pet mage, the story went, and everyone believed. He was in her quarters, more often than not, the rumor claimed, and everyone believed.

She walked past him without ever meeting his gaze. He wouldn't try to stop her. Hawke gasped as the raindrops hit her, hard and stinging, but wonderfully cool. A tiny grin lit her face as she slid out into the darkening sky. She unbuttoned the high collar of her robe and pulled at it, exposing her neck and upper chest before she threw her head back, eyes closed and mouth open, her arms raised to catch the deluge in open hands.

It reminded her of Carver, naked and happy and free, running through the sands and over the short rocky cliffs, Isabella always just a little out of reach, calling him on, forward, into the breach. The hesitant shifting of weight from the elf, uncertain eyes, weighty heat as he relaxed beside her, his voice so soft, a dragon in his own right. He'd talked to her like a person for the first time. He'd sat next to her as a comrade for the first time. He'd sighed ever so quietly when their singular solitude had been invaded. Was that it? Was that when she'd deeded him the tiniest sliver of her heart? Why hadn't she noticed?

It wasn't the forrest green eyes of Fenris that greeted her when she finally looked down, so earnest, so haunted by things he couldn't tell her or anyone. It was Cullen's eyes that she caught, standing under the overhang, the guard vanished. He was staring at her, his hands fisted at his side, naked greed haunted his eyes, not memories. A hint of fear around the corners. She wasn't feminine, in his gaze, she wasn't soft and warm and inviting. She wasn't beautiful like the curve of a back or the soft exhale through open lips. She was beautiful like a desert, like shattered stone, like death. Stark, striking, hard and unforgiving and barren. She was the abyss, and he wanted to leap.

Hawke turned to face the templar, watching him as her hands moved, pulling buttons and ties apart until she opened the robe, let it slide off her shoulders to land in a sodden heap at her feet, her thin shift already soaked and papered to her curves, see through and showing nothing underneath. His eyes raked down, caught on her breasts, followed the line of her waist to her hips, slid back up to her eyes. Greed, fear, rage, betrayal. Temptation. Her fingertips slid down to the hem of her shift and clawed at it, bunching the material under her palms before she pulled it off, letting it fall to the stone next to her robe.

The templar broke, stalking into the rain, hard hands going to her shoulders, his fingertips enough to raise bruises. She swayed limply in his grip, watching the rain soak his hair and trail down his face like tears, "Weapons don't feel pain, Knight Captain," she murmured, and he struck her, backhanded, the sharp edge of his gauntlet slicing her cheek.

She spun around and crumbled, catching herself on her hands and knees before she pulled herself up, stumbling back to her feet. She was laughing, though there was no mirth to the sound, no humor. Hawke turned back towards him and he struck her again. knocking her the other direction where she banged into the bench with her shins and tumbled over, rolling to her back before she sat up, pulling herself back up to her feet, "You're getting slow, old man. Soft."

He grabbed her by a handful of hair and pulled her head back hard, causing her back to bend. She hissed in a breath through clenched teeth and kicked at his knee. He released her with a grunt as his leg went out from under him and they both collapsed to the floor, her turning and crawling away before he got hold of her ankle, arresting her forward momentum. She dropped to her side and kicked out with her other foot, catching his chin with her heel.

He lost the grip and she pulled her legs back, using the bench to leverage herself back to standing, she took a hopping step towards him, and kicked him again, her foot connecting solidly to his temple. He fell to his back and groaned, lifting a hand, "Oh, I'm sorry," she breathed, her voice only barely louder than the rain, "I forgot people feel pain."

She dropped to her knees, straddling his chest and tangled her hand in his hair, bashing the back his head into the stone floor. He hissed at her and grabbed her wrists, then lifted his chest, dropping her into his lap, and caught her hands behind her back with one hand, his free one going to her throat. His fingertips dug into the sides, getting a grip on her windpipe and causing sparks to fire randomly behind her eyes. He pulled her forward and crushed his lips against hers. Her lips slid open and his tongue invaded, claiming her mouth. She bit down. Hard.

With a cry of pain, he yanked back, shoving her off his lap and she rolled, gasping in breaths, up to her hands and knees. She spat his blood out, "Our first kiss," she said, laughing again, "Was it everything you dreamed?" He reached for her and she swung, smashing the heel of her hand against his nose. He held a hand to his face, blood dripping from under his hand to mix with the rain. He rolled away, gaining distance. She tried to follow, but her knees slid on the wet stone and she dropped to her stomach.

Cullen grabbed the opportunity to tackle her, tossing her to her back and dropping his weight on her chest, compressing her ribs, leaving her with only shallow, quick breaths. He wrangled her hands together again before using his teeth to pull at the straps of his gauntlet, shaking it off to toss it to one side, then peeling the glove off. Rough, calloused fingertips closed around her breast, one knee ground into her thighs until they relented, his other knee joining the first, then spreading, forcing her legs apart. His hand raked down her side and over her flank. He pressed his palm against her pubic bone, his thumb slipping between her folds, exploring, searching.

She lifted her head to nip at his cheek, getting his attention before opening her mouth, lapping at the blood still streaming down his chin. He turned his head, catching her lips and sucking her tongue into his mouth, his thumb finding her clit and grinding at it, hard and slow, a demand that her body respond.

"Kill me," she whispered and everything stopped. The templar pulled back to look at her, his eyes clear for the first time, "Do whatever you want," she said, watching him, "Just kill me when you're done."


	33. In Which Turner Sifts Through the Rubble

Cullen fled, jerking away, his eyes wide and rolling, looking anywhere but her. He lurched to his feet and stumbled towards the archway, leaving her, her clothing, his gauntlet, everything where it was lying.

Hawke laughed at him, taking a deep breath to yell, "You can't run from yourself, Knight Captain!" Her voice lowered, muttering to the sky, "Believe me, I've tried." She didn't move, her eyes closing, feeling the rain pound against her naked flesh, chilling her, stinging at the sensitive skin of her nipples and inner thighs. If she waited long enough, perhaps one of the bad templars would find her, and the story tomorrow would be that she had gone abomination, and everyone would mumble all the correct replies.

The bad templars didn't find her, first, "Oh, lassie."

She jerked a little and rolled over, pushing herself up onto her elbows to look back at the door. Turner, and his younger comrade were standing in the doorway, the younger one holding an armful of towels, and Turner looking heartbroken.

They stared at each other for a second before he ducked out into the downpour and grabbed her robe, fumbling it around before he found the top and draping it over her naked back, kneeling to pull gently at her shoulders, "Come along, now, lassie, old Turner'll help fix everythin. You'll see. Be right as rain, tomorrow."

She let him pull her to her feet and pull the robe around her before guiding her under the overhang. The younger one had already dropped most of his armful and now held a single towel out in front of him. Turner pulled the sodden robe away and the other stepped forward to wrap her in the towel.

"The captain sent us lookin for ya, told us you was doin poorly. But don't you worry, me and Chissik, we'll be taken care of you, now. You remember Chissik? He was the one what wrote your messages down."

Hawke stared at Chissik, "Good job, men," she murmured, and he gave her a wan smile before pulling another towel around her shoulders. Turner had gotten a third and was rubbing at her hair. She shivered, cold now, her teeth chattered audibly.

The two men covered her in the remaining towels and bundled her off to her rooms and into a fresh shift before tucking her into bed, professional to the last, Turner treated her like an invalid granddaughter, and Chissik kept his eyes modestly on the floor until she was covered again.

All that taken care of, Chissik left, taking up a position outside the door while Turner settled into the little chair at her desk, "You rest, now, lassie, I'll be here ta watch over ya." He smiled at her, fonder than he likely had any reason to be.

She curled up on her side, watching him silently for a moment before she asked, "Who's taking care of the Captain?"

Turner's lips twisted then relaxed again, his voice gaining a slight edge, "The captain be havin things ta work out on his own," was all he said. He had guessed, or been told, or had assumed a scenario, and he had come down firmly on her side.

Hawke almost envied him, the idea that sides were so clearly defined.

Hawke was not right as rain, the next day, but some of the despair had lifted. And two days after that, Cullen was back, sitting down in the little chair at her desk and opening his book. His honor, his damnable honor, forced him here, forced him to continue this charade, but he couldn't look at her. He tried, once, but his eyes just wouldn't move that far, sliding away, never quite locking on, his face flushed with shame.

Change was something that happened outside the circle. Inside, everything just settled back to status quo, minus a few extraneous conversations.


	34. In Which I Inject Some Much Needed Levity

Hawke was sitting in the gardens. Technically, she wasn't supposed to be there, but the guards seemed to having trouble getting the Captain to discipline his pet mage. They'd relented after a week, and now she spent her days in the sunshine, surrounded by flowers and trellises with vines and a little fountain. They stuck some poor trainee there to watch her and washed their hands of the whole situation.

She was sitting on a bench, braiding flower stems together, trying her best to ignore the nervous templar spawn at her back when she felt the fade shift, then bend over itself. Someone was casting. Not only was someone casting, they were casting a spell that would get them executed. Barrier spells that big in the Gallows made the templars stab first and ask questions later. She sighed softly and stood up, another day locked in her cell.

Hawke turned, then froze. The barrier was over the archway to the gardens, and the person that cast it? Abomination, "Hawke, baby!" The thing spread it arms and shifted towards her, as if it expected a big hug.

She furrowed her brows, looking at the trainee who was struggling to pull his sword free of the sheath and failing miserably, "Uh… Fizzgig?"

The abomination dropped his hands and somehow managed a reproachful look around all it's teeth, "Someone's been putting moves on my girl, sweet cheeks. A little novice on the fourth floor saw everything through her window. Now she's dreaming about it. You've ruined her, there's no chance she'll develop a healthy sexuality, now." He suddenly grinned, "She's my new favorite. After you, of course."

The trainee got his sword free and swung it wildly just as Fizzgig shifted forward again, completely ignoring him. Hawke took an equal number of steps back before she turned and climbed one of the trellis, up onto the stone frames, looking back down at him, "You're nuts! You're in the middle of the gallows, Fizzgig. Surrounded by hundreds of templars. You're going to die. Again. You're a masochist!"

"Marketing, kitten," the demon said, hands raised in a shrug. He reached for a trellis but it wouldn't support his weight and he just ended up pulling it down before tossing it over one shoulder. It hit the trainee and both went down in a crash. Fizzgig beckoned her, "Come down from there, pet. Give us a kiss."

"No! Who did you possess? What'd you promise him?"

Fizzgig waved a hand vaguely, "Oh, you know, ultimate power, and all that."

The fallen trellis shifted, moved up, then crashed back down, again. Templars were now gathering behind the barrier, beating on it, yelling though she couldn't hear them, pointing, running, "I didn't think you were this stupid, Fizzgig!"

"Sex sells, baby doll."

Hawke's eyes bugged and she started moving down the stone frame, across the garden, "I am not having sex with an abomination!"

Fizzgig followed her, hands still raised as if in serenade, "Ahhh, Hawke, baby, you're breakin' my heart, here. I worked hard on this! Got the big chest! I know how much you love the big chest!"

"It's oozing!"

"Okay, forget the chest, listen to the voice! Eh? Little Arishok, mixed with some pride demon. Don't try to deny the voice, now, doll, you know how I adore your honesty." The trellis finally got pushed up and over and the trainee was free, grabbing his sword and advancing again.

Hawke sighed, "Okay, the voice is pretty great. I'm still not having sex with an abomination!"

"Okay, look." He hands waved as if to dismiss the trivialities, "I know. You love the tinglies more than the big finish. I understand that, baby girl. But I gotta tell ya, I'm not feelin your commitment to this venture."

The trainee swung again, and missed again, chasing the demon around the yard as the demon followed Hawke. She stopped moving, "You said I wasn't the long term investment type, Fizzgig!"

The demon shrugged again, "Just cause I don't wanna be inside you, doesn't mean I don't wanna get up in you, sweets." The templar swung, and would have hit his target if the demon didn't dodge to one side, grabbing the sword and yanking it out of the trainee's hands, "Oh! So close!" he yelled, turning on the templar and grabbing him in his free hand, overly long clawed fingers closing about his waist.

"Fizzgig! Fizzgig, you put that templar down!"

The demon gave a great heaving sigh, "Okay. Okay, I get it. You need a little time to think about it. Maybe sleep on it. Call around and do some comparison shopping." He dropped the templar, but kept the sword, "You're a smart girl, I respect that."

Hawke tilted her head, looking over at the barrier, then back down at the demon, "Goodbye, Fizzgig."

Fizzgig huffed, "Goodbye. Do I look like an amateur? I'll see you, tonight, you precious thing. Just got some havoc to wreak, first. Have a brand to protect, you know." He tossed the sword back to the trainee, then dismissed the barrier, gave an impressive roar, and surged towards the veterans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to the Labyrinth fans in the Gallery.


	35. In Which Hawke Doesn't Need Rescuing

Hawke searched the viscount's face, as if this were some overly elaborate practical joke, and he would start giggling, any second. Finding nothing there, she switched to Knight Commander Meredith. She'd never giggle. Orsino always looked on the verge of cackling gleefully, so he wasn't any help, either.

"The Arishok," she repeated dumbly, tasting the word, rolling it around behind her teeth before deciding it tasted wrong. She looked up at the ceiling, "Very funny, Fizzgig!"

Meredith's eyes narrowed and her hand settled onto her sword before Orsino stepped forward and knocked her shoulder, smiling benevolently at the other two, "You'll forgive her, she had a bit of a trauma in the gardens, the other day." He leaned down and pretended to fuss at her, "If you'd like to keep your mouth, stop using it," he hissed near her ear before standing back up, placing a hand on her back, a proud papa with his favorite daughter.

"Er, yes," the viscount said uncertainly before clearing his throat, "As I said, the Arishok requested you by name." He looked at the other two people in the room, "The circle has… graciously decided to grant a special dispensation to act as our… Envoy, to the Qunari."

Hawke easily came up with the words the Viscount wasn't saying. 'Was dragged kicking and screaming into' and 'sacrificial lamb' seemed to fit the bill. "Special dispensation," she repeated dumbly, tasting the words, rolling them around behind her teeth. No, still wrong. She ran a finger up the back of Orsino's leg. Fizzgig never could resist being fondled.

The first enchanter jumped, then skittered away before blushing a bright pink color and giving her a small secret smile. Not Fizzgig, then. She looked back at the viscount who was watching her like she might lunge for his throat any second.

"You'll live outside the circle, and attend to the Arishok's… needs. Be available when he has… need of you." Hawke didn't try to figure those pauses out, they sounded dirty, and the Arishok wasn't the dirty sort, so they were just opinion pauses.

"Outside the circle," she repeated, glancing at Meredith. No, no. If she weren't Fizzgig, Hawke would lose a hand.

The Knight Commander made a disgusted noise and rolled her eyes, walking past Hawke to leave the room, apparently deciding the mage were too dumb to be actually dangerous. Her leaving seemed to end the meeting as the two men relaxed visibly and Orsino motioned to a couple of elven servants who hurried her out of the room, pushing a couple of large packs at her. They'd apparently packed her things while she'd been repeating words in the first enchanter's office.

They lead her through hallways before pushing her through a gate and closing it behind her. In front of her was a stone hallway, and at the other end, an open gate, the Gallows beyond. She could see the great stair leading to the docks. People milled about, merchants hawked wares. She froze, fear creeping up her back. They weren't just going to let her go. Not after…

Her eyes slid to one side and caught on Cullen, standing to one side of the hallways, his hands folded in front of him, looking at her feet. She took a hesitant step forward. He didn't move, not even looking up. Another step, and still he didn't rush her, no one yelled, no swords appeared. She shuffled down the hall, passing him with only the slightest stumble.

Now closer to the outside than in, she stopped and looked back at him. He still hadn't moved. She took another couple of steps before she stopped again, turning around entirely, "Knight Captain."

He moved then, his eyes climbing her legs but never quite making it past her waist, "Serah Hawke," he replied softly.

"If I ever…" She looked out at the Gallows, back towards the circle. The harrowing was a joke, and demons were a lot trickier than anyone gave them credit for being. They could be patient, make plans, play the long game. In there, they were just suicide by templar. Outside… She cleared her throat, "If I'm ever not myself…"

Cullen forgot his shame enough to catch her eyes, his brows furrowing in momentary confusion before clearing, "I'll take care of you," he repeated his vow from years ago, "Wherever you are."

She nodded at him, readjusting her hands on the packs holding the remains of her life in the circle. She turned to leave, but his voice, hesitant, uncertain, stopped her, "Serah Hawke."

"Knight Captain."

"How do I fix it?"

She turned to look back. He was watching her with an open, tormented expression. It was the most honest look he'd given her since that night three years ago. She didn't know what to say, "The circle?" _Or me?_

He nodded and she sighed a little in relief. She didn't want to have the I-can't-be-fixed conversation in the hallway to freedom with the man she just asked to kill her. Twice, now. Instead she considered the question before shrugging, "If you don't see them as people, neither will your men. Fix yourself, first."

He stared at her for a long moment before he nodded firmly, then turned away, leaving her to her open gate to freedom. She took the last couple of steps out into the Gallows. She owned an estate, titles, her family had power, and nothing had gotten her free until the Arishok had asked. Just asked. Just said her name. Power, money. These things didn't shake Kirkwall. Fear did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you were hoping for an Italian Job style two hour break out plan, weren't you? New prompt: Write the two hour long Italian Job style break out plan that _could_ have been. I look forward to reading it.
> 
> And this is where we slide ever so gently back into canon, almost as if we never left.


	36. In Which Fenris Mocks Hawke

Had Hawke known that her mother was planning to decorate the entire house in her needlepoint, she might have stayed in the circle. She considered the logistics of sneaking _into_ the circle as she sat on the couch, two of her throw pillows in her lap, some monstrous misshapen beast that she thought might have been intended to be a puppy glaring at her balefully from the opposite wall.

Fenris was sitting in the easy chair, just as uncomfortably, as Bodahn and her mother fussed, bringing in plates of food, tea, then cocoa, then more tea, asking questions she didn't want to answer and giving her looks when she declined food, tea, or to answer the question. She knew she owned the place, but had neglected to ask where the front door was, so Fenris had to show her, and had, of course, been pulled in as some prodigal hero returned -- he showed up with her daughter, he must therefore have rescued her.

Hawke decided not to ask how her mother would have felt if she'd brought the Arishok home.

At least Mangy had stopped barking and spinning in circles, but Hawke was still seconds from tossing the throw pillows into the fire, then starting on the wall hangings. When Bodahn arrived with yet another mug of cocoa, she decided enough was enough and stood up, the throw pillows crushed in her grip. Fenris headed her off at the pass, touching her wrist as he stood up directly in her path, "Hawke has an appointment with the Arishok, we should move on."

Hawke pursed her lips at the elf, half wondering how he had figured out her plans, half annoyed that he had stopped them. Rather than pursue either of those lines of inquiry, she dropped the pillows behind her back back onto the couch and turned to face her mother, "Yes. We'll talk later. Mother. Bodahn," she nodded at the dwarf before slipping past Fenris and fleeing at a dignified pace towards the door.

They made it two blocks before Hawke realized that instead of her mother and Bodahn fussing, she now had to deal with Fenris staring. They made it another block after that before Hawke stopped moving, looked around, then broke for a dark alley across the street. The elf followed.

The chase was on, and then immediately off again when Hawke ran into a dead end. She stopped and leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees before she put her back against the darkest corner she could find and slid down into a heap of gold cloth and shuddering. The elf stood a few feet away, watching her.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Looking at me."

Fenris arched a brow, but after a moment he moved to slide down the wall a couple of feet away from her and took to watching the alley instead. Hawke breathed a bit easier and let her head rest against the stone behind her.

Minutes passed before anything happened, and then it was just a breath, no louder than the wind, a sentence she didn't want to say, "I can't find her."

The elf shot her a confused glance before he remembered himself and looked away again, "Who?"

"Hawke."

He nodded silently, plucking at her ribbon with one hand as if deep in thought, "The Hawke with the easy smile and damnable charm."

It wasn't actually a question, but she answered it anyway, "Yes."

Fenris just nodded again, letting the silence stretch out before he looked at her directly, ignoring her previous orders, "That's because I have her locked in my basement."

Hawke picked her head up and stared at him.

"I was forced to hire mercenaries to get her into those manacles, but I think she's coming around. She did promise to stop biting if I fed her." He tilted his head, white hair falling into his eyes.

She reached up to scratch behind her ear before she looked away, laughing soundlessly, "I can't believe you're mocking me."

"I have a great teacher," he said, his lips curling in the barest hint of what could have been a smile when she looked at him again, "Conveniently locked in my basement."


	37. In Which Mother is a Bad Ass

Varric was being unreadable, again. Hawke didn't blame him. When she'd walked into Ander's clinic earlier, there had been grabbing and pulling, near hysterics, talk of drowning them in blood, all with that horrible paranoid gleam in his fevered eyes. Her years in the circle had not, apparently, been kind to him.

But that was on the list of things to deal with… after. Just after. After she got through this next second, this next breath, this next day. She stopped at the gate to the compound, already opened when the man standing there had recognized her. Her eyes flickered to Fenris. He was watching her again.

Hawke let a hand drift out casually, her fingernails catching at the ribbon he still had tied around his gauntlet. The elf pretended not to notice and the moment passed, entirely unremarked upon by anyone, but Hawke felt better. Whatever she might have lost, or would lose, Fenris would remember and there was a comfort in that, a certainty she had been missing for a very long time.

She took a breath, put on her game face, and slinked into the compound, her hips rolling losely, all boneless grace and barely contained laughter.

"Serah Hawke." She nearly gasped at the sight of him, just like she remembered him, just like Fizzgig had rendered him, and the thought of what Fizzgig had done with his recreated body brought a flush to her cheeks and she had to look away.

She stumbled for words momentarily before clearing her throat, "Uh oh. Names. You know what that means." She looked to the side, "What do you, think, Varric? Bambi and Babycakes?"

"I dunno, Hawke, I think I might have to go for the obvious horn pun." the dwarf answered easily and she settled into how right bantering with him felt.

"You always did have an ear for the classics," she said with a grin. She caught the raised hand in the corner of her eyes and gathered her robes, reaching out to take the offered hand before she saw who it was attached to and jerked her arm back. Her blood froze. This was not the normal soldier, this one was wearing a masked helmet, a control rod and collar attached to the belt at his waist. The Arishok had bid one of the mage keepers to escort her.

Her gaze slid off the man and up to the Arishok. He was watching her with undisguised curiosity, as if this were all an experiment to see how she would react, "Karasten tell me you are bas serebas. A mage."

"You have a collar with my name on it, Arishok?" She sounded a lot calmer than she felt.

"That remains to be seen." His eyes went to the still outstretched hand of the Qunari standing in front of her, "You wish to renegotiate our accord?"

Hawke swallowed. If the Arishok wanted that collar on her, she wasn't entirely sure she could stop him. Not here, in the middle of his compound, surrounded by his soldiers, unarmed. She reached over and took the man's hand without ever looking away from the Arishok, her fingers jerked when he closed his thumb over them.

He led her up the stairs, Anders and Varric attempting to follow before being held back by Fenris. His eyes were narrow, his lips in a thin, worried line, but the elf apparently knew better than to follow her up there. The qunari left her at the top stair and took up a position to one side. Hawke slid uncomfortably into her usual seat at the Arishok's left foot, still trying to stitch back together the tattered remains of her game face.

"When you did not return, I sent Karasten to find you. He found a woman who claimed to have birthed you. She provided sweetbreads, then attacked him with cleaning implements and locked him in a room until he swore he would not harm you." Hawke blinked at him, speechless, "He has named her basilt'an, and wishes this for her." One of the men (Karasten?) appeared with a large box and set it down before pulling the top off.

Twin, double-headed battle axes. "Uhm. Yes. Mother will… kill many with those." _Accidently, probably including herself._

"As intended," the Arishok said.


	38. Because Gratuitous Sexual Tension, Yo

They were halfway to blows when Aveline and Merrill showed up, managing to drag them out of the slowly dissipating mist before they forgot why they should have left.

That didn't stop the inevitable, though. Anders threw the first punch, a sucker punch, low and wild, right into the elf's gut. And then Varric was there, taking the mage out by the thighs. They tumbled wildly down a set of stairs, and Fenris caught Hawke when he staggered back away from the whirling typhoon of enraged dwarf.

Hawke shoved him and he whirled on her, a sudden grin appearing and his lyrium engraved skin lighting up as he launched himself towards her. She slipped on the dusty flagstone as she tried to scramble away and went down, the elf tripping over her and landing on her chest. She pulled his hair. He bit her shoulder. And then Merrill got involved.

Roots appeared from between the stones with an awful grinding sound, wrapping them both in a tangle of thorns and tightening tendrils. Judging from the sudden cursing from down the stairs, she'd caught Anders and Varric, too, "This ends now!" Hawke turned her head to stare at Merrill and the elf amended, "Please," in a small voice. She kept talking when no one jumped in to stop her, "I just think this isn't helpful, is all. I'm sorry about the thorns. They come with the vines, I'm afraid."

"Merrill," Aveline said from where her head to could be seen, poking up over the short stack of stairs, "You can end the spell, now."

"Oh! Right." She waved a hand in a shooing motion and the roots released them. From the sounds, Anders and Varric got right back into it, but Aveline was managing to keep them apart, one hand curled in each collar.

Hawke dropped her head and took a breath, wincing a little at where the elf had gotten an elbow in her ribs when he dropped on top of her. Fenris got his arms disentangled and lifted his chest up, looking down at her, "Are you hurt?"

"Much better, now you're not all happy, glowy elf." she said. Unable to help herself, Hawke lifted a hand, running a single fingertip over the marks on his chin. He shied away from her touch. Of course. Of course he did. She cringed, in the middle of pulling her hand back when he caught it in a clawed gauntlet. The space between heartbeats passed and he was on his feet, pulling her up after him. He released her hand another heartbeat later and they both looked in opposite directions.

Thankfully, Hawke got the interesting view, Varric trying to kick Anders with his stumpy little dwarf legs, Anders pulling futilely at Aveline's hair, trying to make her release him. Merrill was fluttering about behind the dwarf, alternately fussing at a cut on his forehead and scolding him for picking on the mage.

Hawke found herself smiling, even as tears welled up in her eyes.

"You are hurt," the elf said, his hands going to her shoulders and stepping closer.

"No, no," she said between sniffles, wiping the tears from her cheek, "Just happy to be home."


	39. In Which Hawke does not Get a Good Night's Sleep

" _And you should all be grateful!_ " Hawke wasn't the one being yelled at, and she still ducked, trying to make herself small and inconspicuous. The Arishok wasn't even really yelling at Varric, who had been asking questions. He seemed to be yelling at the city itself, the stones underfoot, the constant haze of dust that littered the air. Hawke could have told him she'd tried that and it never worked, but she wasn't about to make a sound, let alone a quip.

Nothing happened for a moment as everyone except the Arishok's men stared at him, and then, as quickly as it had come, the anger was gone, melting off his shoulders like a long forgotten cloak as he turned, striding up the two steps he had stormed down, turning, and settling gracefully onto his bench, "Thank you, dwarf. Now leave."

Hawke was in the middle of standing when a great clawed hand dropped on her shoulder, "You will stay." She dropped back to the step, stifling a groan. It had been a long day, and she was past ready to curl up in a real bed, in a room that wasn't locked from the outside. Fenris was watching with a wary expression, and she got the idea he might try to ignore the Arishok's order to leave. Or worse, try to rescue her from the gentle if resolute clutches of the Qunari.

She shook her head and after a moment the elf only glowered at her before turning to trail Varric to the gate. Time passed, her friends left, men came and went, giving reports, taking orders, all in their own language she understood only a couple of words in. Still the Arishok said nothing to her, and in fact, seemed to have forgotten her presence all together.

This was actually a welcome change, from the rest of her day. No one was watching her, no one was questioning her, no one was shoving tea and cocoa in her face in some aggressive form of sympathy. As evening crept in and the cool night breeze blew in from the sea, she curled her legs up inside her robes and risked the Arishok's ire by leaning back slowly, touching his bench with her shoulder blade. When that prompted no mention, she relaxed into it, lidding her eyes against the setting sun.

Hawke's next conscious thought was the nagging pin prick of cold against her otherwise wonderfully warm cheek. She dragged herself back into wakefulness and opened her eyes. A piece of metal. Sewn on the outside of the Arishok's leg wraps. She looked up. Her cheek was pressed against the Arishok's hip, one arm slung over his thigh, and the rest of her pressed up snugly against his lower leg. He seemed to still be ignoring her.

She jerked away, tried to rise but her legs got tangled in the long robes she'd tucked them into, and she got caught inches from taking a header down the stairs by the mage keeper. She jerked the other direction, and ended up back where she started, huddled against the Arishok's leg.

The sun had gone down, and the courtyard was abandoned but for her, the man with the collar, and the leader of the entire Qunari military. She swallowed, wiping a hand across her face, checking for drool before she cleared her throat, "My apologies, Arishok, I…" _had a long three years,_ "Fell asleep," she finished. The Arishok wasn't the sort to be concerned with excuses.

"Parshaara," he grumbled at her in his velvet tones, finally looking down at her, "You are prone to panic, Hawke."

 _Blind panic, random direction._ She didn't say anything, looking up at him, trying to shove the image of Cullen's tormented, shamed features out of her mind. The man just watched for a second before standing, sliding his leg out from behind her with the easy grace of a swordsman. He scooped some rocks off the ground and into one hand before saying anything, "Arms out."

She narrowed her eyes but held her hands out to him, palms up. He used a claw to nudge her arms to the sides before he started balancing stones on top, one in each palm, each lower arm, each shoulder. He dropped her rest of the rocks and dusted his hands together. Hawke stayed where she was, holding her arms out to her sides and balancing stones. She wasn't actually afraid until the Arishok looked at the only other man there, "If she drops any rocks, collar her."

The man nodded and took the collar from his waist, watching her. She trembled, then immediately jammed her back hard against the bench to stop it, lest any rocks fall, "Arishok?" she asked. He ignored her, turning and walking away, "Arishok. Arishok!"


	40. In Which Hawke Lives Through the Night

Hawke could probably kill the man with the collar. He wasn't close enough to get that thing around her neck before she could get a spell off. The problem was what to do after that. If by some miracle she managed to fight her way out of the compound, she would then need to pack up her mother and go on the run for possibly a very long time -- she didn't imagine the circle would be understanding about the whole pissed off qunari thing, and they had her blood. Rather than kill him, she stared at him. He stared back.

The pain started almost exactly when one would imagine, the second she decided this wasn't that hard. Not long after that the wailing started. Inhuman sounds pushed up out of her throat that no amount of clenching her teeth or trying to relax would silence. And then the weakness set in.

Hawke stopped watching her qunari companion and eyed her arm, worried. It was starting to bounce involuntarily. It was going to give out, and Hawke couldn't stop it. Her eyes caught on the bench at her back. He'd never said she couldn't move, only that she couldn't drop the stones. She hoped that the qunari waiting with her took it the same way. She slid down slowly, watching for any reaction. When he gave none, she shifted her hips off her feet and carefully settled to the step. With her arms stretched back, she was just able to rest elbows and wrists on the bench without upsetting any of the rocks, and she sobbed in relief.

By the time dawn came, Hawke looked truly sacrificial, her arms stretched over the bench, resting on her hips at an odd angle, her legs splayed and her skirts dripping down the stairs. Her head dropped forward to her chest, occasionally pulling back upright as she fought to stay awake.

That's where the Arishok found her as he came back into the courtyard with a small cadre of karasten. He looked her over, then nodded at the man with the collar, who nodded back before putting his collar back on his belt and leaving.

"We should discuss the meaning of no harm, your horniness," Hawke said, unable to gather the will to be respectful, or even pick her head up to glare at him.

The Arishok crouched next to her and plucked the rock out of one palm with his claws, "The only harm you face in my care is from yourself, Hawke." He showed her the rock before he tossed it carelessly down the stairs, "Your only enemies are in here," he tapped her chest.

A few flicks of his hand cleared the rest of the stones away, but Hawke didn't try to move. She wasn't entirely sure she could if she wanted to. She was certain that she prefered this uncomfortable numbness to the pain, "Do I get a lollypop for reward?"

"I would not insult you by announcing that the result was in question," he replied, his great hands lifting her arms and pulling them forward. She hissed in a breath and whimpered, twitching, as the pain flared anew. The Arishok got an arm around her shoulders and lowered her to the stone on her back, her arms folded up over her chest.

No longer able to keep her eyelids peeled, Hawke settled into the stone as if it were the softest of feather beds. She felt the man shift, movement, the bench creaking as he took his seat, the toe of one boot under her waist, the heel of the other resting against her hips on the other side. She drifted off to the sound of the Arishok's voice speaking a language she did not comprehend.


	41. In Which Hawke gets Blitzed

"What have you done to her?"

Hawke grinned and opened her eyes, turning her head to look down at the elf, ready to stare down the entire Qun, with that glower he had perfected years ago, "Fenris!" She stretched an arm out over the stairs and wiggled her fingers at him, reaching.

He stopped glowering long enough to stare at her, confused. A beat, then he tried to climb the stairs only to be stopped by several karasten, "Be mindful, elf," the Arishok said softly, "Hawke is under my care. You are not."

Fenris didn't back down so much as reinforce the new front line, then looked at Hawke, "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fiiiine," Hawke purred, "A very nice tasa… tramass… A very nice lady gave me tea." She slid closer, her shoulder dropping off the top step, her head tilting to look at him, upside down, "I think there mighta been somethin in it," she mock-whispered before holding a finger to her lips, "Shhhh."

"You look a little blissed, there, Chuckles. Must have been some good tea," Varric said, grinning at her.

Hawke held out both arms up over her head toward the dwarf, "Varric!"

Fenris finally stepped back, his shoulders lowering, "You've been drugged," he said, glancing at the Arishok.

"Pshaaaw," Hawke waved a hand vaguely, "Don't worry 'bout Shokie, he's a total gentleman," one of her slippered feet slid up the Arishok's leg before he caught it by the ankle, "Tortured me all night but there was no groping." She lifted her head to look at the Arishok, "Left out all the good bits."

The Arishok looked from her to Fenris before holding out her ankle to the elf, "You will take her, now, and go."

"What, no goodnight kiss? Thought we had something special. Bet you play naughty serebas with all the girls." Hawke kicked at him weakly until he released the ankle and rolled over, pulling herself down the stairs towards her friends.

Fenris looked back at the karasten, who moved out of his way before he climbed the steps to reach her, "We can't take you anywhere, Hawke," he muttered, haulling her upright long enough to get his arm around her thighs before he hefted her onto his shoulder. Hawke kicked her legs with no force, more as an obligation than any sort of struggle, but Fenris ignored them, bowing slightly to the Arishok.

He turned and started down the stairs, Hawke pushing herself up from his back to look back at the Arishok, "Next time, you hold the rocks. I'll bring a collar." Fenris tightened his grip on her legs and bounced her on his shoulder. She dropped back down with a little groan and hung limply, her eyes closing again.

They were nearly to the gate when her arms slid around his waist, "Fenris," she murmured softly against his back, as if to remind herself of something. He growled at her, but all the did was cause her grip to tighten.


	42. In Which Hawke gets Justice

Ser Alrik was dead, and really, good riddance. He'd been one of the bad templars. Hawke felt no remorse for that bit of this little drama, him or his cronies. But Anders wasn't done. No, not Anders, Justice. His eyes swirled black and lyrium blue when he looked back at her, promising to end all the templars. All of them.

Justice would probably be appalled at how much he and Ser Turner had in common, right now, the both of them assuming there were sides so clearly distinguished, so easily labeled as right or wrong. And now he was threatening Ella. Hawke had only met her a couple of times, in the circle, she was a novice, newly caught, who spent her time being homesick and talking to anyone who would listen about her mother. They hadn't been close, but she was just a child. A now terrified and cowering child.

"Fenris," she murmured under her breath to the elf at her shoulder, "Get the girl."

When he nodded and started edging around the spirit she stepped over Alrik's corpse, "Anders. It's done. The templars are dead."

"She is theirs! I can feel their hold on her!"

"Well. I _was_ worried we wouldn't fill our quota on dead children." Hawke was good at a few things, getting people to turn on her was just one of them.

Justice rounded on her, his fury instantly switching targets. Fenris took the opportunity to rush in, reaching for the girl who tried to scramble away from him, too, "Marian!" she cried, uncertain what to do.

"Ella, go with the nice elf," she said in a calm, soothing tone, still staring at Justice, her staff held in front of her, but it wasn't enough. Before Fenris could reach Ella, the spirit rounded on her again, lifting an arm.

Hawke felt the fade surge through her, thrusting into her with all the subtlety of a dagger, the feel of it slimy and jagged with Justice's rage. It was sweet, alluring, poisonous. Intimate in a way that made her gorge rise but she shoved that feeling aside, launching herself at Anders' back. She crashed into the abomination just as the link to the fade snapped back, Anders reasserting his control over his body as they went down in a flurry of feathers and blue light.

"No!" Anders yelled, struggling under her weight before shoving her off and picking himself up. He stared at the child, now clinging to Fenris' back as the elf stood between them, sword out, entirely prepared to end Anders if he had to. "What have I…" he trailed off and fled the caverns, not looking back.

Hawke stared at his retreating back before she rolled onto her hands and knees and retched, trying to force the cloying, sickly remnants of Vengeance from her insides. She could feel a rough hand slapping her on the back, Varric standing over her with a concerned look, "You okay, Chuckles?" Hawke nodded weakly, spitting, then taking the handkerchief the dwarf was waving at her and wiping her face.

She got to her feet with Varric's help and turned just in time to see Fenris untangle the terrified girl from his arm and take several steps away from her, having lost all interest in touching her now that she wasn't being threatened. She was, after all, a mage too. Hawke's heart fell. Another reminder that all the men she might love were all just waiting for the viper to show itself.

Hawke shook her head. There would be time for self pity, later, "Ella. They already have your blood? At the circle?"

The girl straightened, seeming to calm as her circle elder took charge, "Yes, messere. First day." Her eyebrows furrowed and she licked her lips, "If I can ask, messere. What was that?"

Hawke bit the inside of her cheek and sighed. She decided to ignore that question, "You'd better turn yourself in to the templars, then. Listen to me, now. You find Ser Thrask, or Ser Turner. No one else, you understand? Thrask or Turner, tell them I sent you. They'll take care of you. You can trust them, and they'll help you get word to your mum."

The girl nodded, turning to flee the caverns, and Hawke dropped to a rock, resting her elbows on her knees as she contemplated the corpses of a handful or more templars. A second passed before anyone spoke. Surprisingly, it was Fenris waving a hand at the bodies when he said, "No one can find out about this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to, again, thank everyone who's left comments and kudos. You're the reason I keep partaking in this madness. I hope you're enjoying the ride.


	43. In Which Hawke Discusses Fetishes with Arishok

Hawke was a fool. No, worse than that, she was a masochist. That was the only possible reason she'd be standing there in front of the open gate to the compound, thinking about going in. She wasn't well versed in the more esoteric laws of Kirkwall, but she was fairly sure what the Arishok had done would count as torture in some circles. It had been two days before she could lift her arms, and her mother had raged, and Anders had nearly wept, and Fenris had given her that tight-lipped worried look, even Varric had squeezed her hand in a rare display of affection.

She had been given what seemed to be an impossible test. She had passed. And somehow, no one had ever suggested that she might not have, or should not have, or could not have. It didn't occur to anyone but herself that she couldn't do it.

Hawke felt strong. Powerful, with a gravitas that she hadn't felt in years, a sense of destiny, a vision of endless skies. She was pure lyrium, immortal, untouchable, unstoppable. She wanted to scream and dance and laugh until she cried. She was caught in a tug of war between aggression and sexuality. She wanted to fight, she wanted to fuck, and she wasn't entirely sure where the line between them was.

Perhaps her encounter with Cullen had ruined more than the novice on the fourth floor.

The Qun, or the Qunari, or perhaps just the Arishok, one of them was a drug, and here she was, looking for a fix. She dragged a hand through her loose hair and sighed at herself. She'd spent all day in Ander's clinic, watching him pack, then unpack, then pace, then rant and rave and weirdly, question her attraction to Fenris. In front of the elf. She'd been shocked and humiliated, he'd been confused and suspicious, and Varric had coughed. Coughing. The universal sign for desperately trying not to laugh. But no one would ever think to find her here.

It was a rationalization. Hawke accepted that.

She walked in, up the stairs, and stood silently at the bottom of the dias, gazing up the man himself and a small circle of karasten speaking intently about something. She made no noise, just watched, the karasten more animated than she'd ever seen, the Arishok silent and listening. Minutes passed before he held up a single hand and the circle of men immediately went silent. The arishok said something, two or maybe three words, and the circle dissolved. She felt powerful, but the Arishok was power.

It only took a moment after the meeting broke up for him to notice her, and he tilted his head before standing and striding down the stairs towards her, "Hawke. You have discovered the truth of my words?" He stopped a couple feet away and held out a hand.

She took the hand, automatic, unthinking, and fought the urge to press herself against his side. She couldn't manage to stop gazing up at him wide, intense eyes, whatever she told herself about how she was trying to look, "I don't know," she said. She'd never really considered lying to the man. Besides being a fairly bad liar, he just wasn't the sort you lied to, "I'm beginning to think it's sexual."

The Arishok looked down at her with weighty, considering eyes before he turned, leading her back up the stairs, "You are powerful, but you lack focus, certainty." He stopped at the top and turned her around, holding her arm out to the side before he released her hand, the fingers sliding to her elbow, just barely holding her arm up, "You seek security in the inevitability of your own death, Hawke."

Hawke swallowed, looking ahead though all of her attention was focused behind her, on the heat radiating from the man, on the claws touching her elbow, "That…" she shook her head, "That took a bit of a turn towards morbid."

More claws appeared on her other elbow and lifted it up to match the first arm, mirroring the torture of her first night, except he held her arms up, not the bench, "It is only when your choices are as the karasten -- to accept and succeed, or deny and die -- that you yield to the Qun. You surrender, and overcome."

His claws slowly pulled away until she was supporting her arms herself, and they quickly began to tremble, still weak. She narrowed her eyes at the dim courtyard before responding, "Could still be sexual."


	44. In Which Hawke is Touched by Magic

_What does magic touch that it doesn't spoil?_

The words had echoed when Fenris had said them. Maybe that was her imagination, but she still heard them, following her back to Kirkwall from the coast. Anders had, of course, taken the opportunity to question Hawke, again, about her attraction. Maker, was she obvious about it? She thought she'd learned to hide things better, in her time at the circle. How did the mage even know?

"You'd think your dalliance with the Knight Captain would have taught you something. People like that will never see us as anything but mages," he was saying as they walked through the gates to the city, "Dangerous things to put down or enslave for their own false sense of security. He'll turn on you. I'm surprised he hasn't already."

Hawke had been listening to this for the last two hours, "Anders, the only person in our merry band of misfits that has ever pointed a weapon at me, is you." That was technically true.

"That was Justice. Besides, Fenris doesn't need a weapon." Also technically true.

"Neither do you, Anders," she sighed, stopping in the middle of low town, turning towards him. She didn't want to fight with the mage. He was a friend, even when he was glowing blue and waving his magic around. She reached up to adjust his jacket in that way that always made his gaze soften and a smile appear, "We'll just have to change their minds."

It wasn't working this time, and Anders just frowned at her, "How did the honorable, noble, upstanding mage act work out for you, Hawke? I don't think they're listening."

"You're right," she said softly with a frown of her own, straightening a few out of place feathers around his shoulders and not meeting his eye, "They don't listen to anything but fear in this city. But that doesn't mean we stop trying. They have to get tired of fear, eventually."

"I think you're confused about the nature of fear, Hawke," the mage said, though he did finally smile at her and squeeze her shoulder. Back to being friends just that easily. He and Varric peeled off for the Hanged Man while Hawke continued the climb up to Hightown.

She hadn't always been a rosy-eyed optimist, but what was the alternative? Make a deal with Fizzgig?

She finally found the elf, waiting for her in the little courtyard of her estate. She stopped in the street, seconds before he turned and noticed her. He'd be here to apologize. Not for his thoughts on magic ( _What does magic touch that it doesn't spoil?_ ) but for yelling at her while he said it. She wasn't sure she was up for that, just yet.

"Fenris," she said softly as she stepped into the courtyard, walking past him to the door, "You don't need to say anything. I know you were upset and didn't mean…"

"I meant every word, Hawke," the elf cut in. He followed her to the door, "But I should not have taken my anger out on you. You… didn't deserve that."

"I appreciate you making that so clear," she muttered, her voice low and tight with anger as she tried to get the door open. Fenris narrowed his eyes and stepped towards her and she stumbled backwards, pressing against the wall. She hadn't meant to do that.

The elf stopped, his face stricken, seeing her fear. Andraste's butt cheeks, why had she done that? Now everything was unimaginably worse, "I would never hurt you, Hawke," Fenris said, his voice soft.

"I have your word on that?"

His jaw tightened and he took a step back, his own anger rising, "You know nothing! I couldn't let her slip out of my grasp! I wanted to let her go, but I… Couldn't"

Hawke's hand tightened on the doorknob and she took a deep breath, "Can we not do this? Not… Not on the street." She lowered her chin and studied the cobblestones underfoot, "Look, just… Just come inside, mother will want to show you her battle axes."

Fenris just stood there and stared at her while she opened the door, then held it open for him, not entering, "She decorated them in pink ribbon and hung them over the fireplace. You have to see it to believe it."

Fenris watched her for a moment longer before he took a couple of steps forward, stopping again before he entered the doorway, reaching out to touch her arm with gentle fingers. He couldn't quite meet her eyes, "I would not harm you," he insisted in a near whisper.

_What does magic touch that it doesn't spoil?_

"I know," Hawke said. And she did know. He would never hurt her. He would never love her, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The required weekly angsting in every great love story.


	45. In Which Sebastian gets His Pet Name

"I can't believe drunk guy is a prince," Anders said softly, holding his mug in both hands.

"I can't believe he's leaving us," Merrill replied, "He always had the best stories." She tilted her head, "You know, if you ignore the slurring. And crying," her voice got softer as she trailed off, "Cursing at someone named Morrigan…"

"I almost slept with him," Hawke put in, shrugging when the rest of the table looked up at her, "Turned him down. Never said I was brilliant."

"Well, on the bright side, we have new guy," Varric said, waving his mug at the dark haired man in gleaming white armor with an Andrate belt buckle.

Hawke raised her ale, "Here's to new guy."

"The name is Sebas…"

"No, no, no good," Hawke interrupted, shaking her head, "No names. First there's introductions, then I find out you're some chant thumping blighter, then I wanna sleep with you. And then?" She peered at Varric, "Then it just gets awkward, yeah?"

New guy got the oddest expression on his face. Blushing with something that could either be embarrassment or offense, mixed with no small part of surprise.

"You know you have options," Anders muttered into his mug, not looking up.

Hawke reached out and took the mage's hand, "Oh, Anders. I love you, but you know it's Justice I'm really pining for." Varric snorted, Anders sputtered, and Hawke raised her glass again, "If they aren't trying to kill you, what would be the point?" Her head thumped down to the table and she laid there.

"Here, here," Varric said and took a drink before patting Hawke's head with a large hand, "Come on, now, Chuckles. New guy's a prince, too!"

Hawke lifted her head just enough to peer suspiciously at new guy, "Heeey… I know you. That's right! You're last of my line guy, all chantry board shooting, mother pissing off, sexy accent guy."

New guy shifted uncomfortably in his chair, clearing his throat, "Er. Sebastian."

"Sebastian." Hawke stared for a moment longer before laying her head back down, "Sweetums and Sunshine."

"Pookie and Peanut," Varric said offhand while Sebastian looked confused.

"Mmm. Good ones," Hawke muttered, her eyes slipping closed. In moments she was snoring softly. Varric continued to pat her head fondly.

"Ah… She knows I'm a chantry brother, right?"

"Don't worry, choir boy, I'm pretty sure her dance card is full." He was giving Fenris a withering look.

The elf didn't look up from his ale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My husband gave me some sort of Peruvian death flu. Blame him for today's disaster.


	46. In Which the Heroes Stage an Intervention

Hawke was walking into the Hanged Man for the ritual nightly self-flagellation when Fenris smiled at her invitingly for the first time. She stumbled to a stop and stared at him, then looked behind her. She was the only one there. The elf was definitely smiling. The elf was definitely smiling at her.

"Smile!" Hawke yelled, and several things happened in near simultaneous sequence.

First, the entire bar turned to look at her, then Hawke dove for a table. Sebastian acquitted himself well in performing a breathtaking flying leap over the table, stealing the elf's sword before he rolled and ended up under his own hiding spot. Go, new guy. Varric started yelling, "Go! Go!", waving his arms as if he were directing traffic.

That's when the chaos started. Drunken patrons panicked and stampeded. Some for the door, some for the stairs. Not a few dove for the bar to apparently protect the liquor from whatever had the the circle mage hiding under a table. Fenris had spun around on losing his sword, and now looked confused, his eyes scanning the barroom for an apparently invisible danger. Seconds later, Aveline and Anders came rushing down the stairs, barreling over patrons and sending people sprawling. They held a bed spread stretched between them and dove into the elf.

Fenris went down under the sheet while the humans, in a well-practiced motion, flipped him over, twisting him up in the fabric and getting him over Aveline's shoulders. In exactly one minute and 47 seconds, Fenris was trussed up and carried out of the tavern, the rest of the group clearing out behind him, leaving the patrons to stumble around in drunken stupors trying to decide if they should still be afraid.

Two minutes and 14 seconds after that, and Fenris was tied to a chair in one of Varric's bolt holes scattered about Low Town. Varric carefully pulled the sheet away from the elf's face. He was now glowering in earnest, and everyone relaxed a little.

"Broody," the dwarf began, using a low, soothing tone, "First, let me just say that we all love you."

"Well…" Anders started before Varric held up a finger.

"Most of us love you," the dwarf corrected. That done, he settled onto his seat in the circle of chairs. Fenris glared. The dwarf cleared his throat, "So, we've called this meeting to discuss how your recent behavior has affected us. Chuckles, would you like to start?"

Hawke picked through her pockets before finding a very old, worn sheet of paper that had been folded and refolded, and probably been through several washings. She nodded at the dwarf before speaking, "It makes me afraid when you…"

"An Intervention?" Fenris asked, stupefied, "You kidnapped me for an intervention?" He looked around the circle, no one answered, "And it seemed a brilliant plan, at the time, did it? It occurred to none of you that rope couldn't hold me?" He did that shifting, blue glowy thing he did and stood up, the rope and sheet falling to the chair limply.

"Well… When you say it like that," Hawke said softly, stuffing the paper back into her pocket.

The elf ignored her, turning to look at Sebastian, "You took my sword."

The chantry boy swallowed, "Ahh… That seems to be required training before Varric would allow anyone to travel with …" He trailed off, waving a hand at Hawke, before he brightened noticeably, "I spent weeks working on that dive, flip, roll thing."

Varric grinned at him, "It was beautiful, choir boy. Could not have done it better myself."

"The point is," Aveline interjected, with a pointed look at the two rogues, "We all care about you and Hawke, and regardless of your personal feelings for mages…"

"You all believe I will harm Hawke," Fenris looked around the room, seeming crestfallen.

Anders cleared his throat, "You have made your feelings perfectly clear…"

"I would never harm Hawke," the elf insisted, starting to look desperate. He turned his look on Hawke, pinning her to her chair with the silent demand to be believed.

"But how could we know that, Broody?" Varric, as always, trying to be reasonable.

"Because I'm in love with her!" the elf roared before he stopped suddenly, his eyes going wide.

Awkward, and in at least one case, shocked, silence took over and no one made a sound for several seconds before the elf grabbed his sword back from Sebastian and stalked to the exit, vanishing.

Several more seconds passed before Merrill suddenly crashed through the door, "Sorry! Sorry! I was…" She looked around, "Did I miss it? I didn't miss it, did I?" Her eyes got big and round as she spotted at the empty ropes, "You didn't have to kill him, did you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I write Merrill, the more I love her.
> 
> The more you guys comment, the more I love you, too. <3


	47. In Which Hawke Turns Down Cuddles

"Thirty spokes join a wheel, in its emptiness, there is function. Mix clay to create a container, in its emptiness, there is function. Cut open doors and windows to create a room, in its emptiness, there is function. Therefore, that which exists is benefit, that which is empty is function."

Hawke considered that, only half paying attention as she stared at the setting sun. Finally, she replied, "What is empty in a sword?"

The Tamassran let one side of her mouth quirk, "The cut which it leaves behind."

Hawke had been kneeling in the dust with the woman for the better part of two hours listening to her talk, an activity normally ensured of bringing a sort of numb calmness -- the washed out emptiness of intricate mental gymnastics. Tonight, however, it wasn't working.

Her day had started badly, with news of missing Qunari envoys, and had only gotten worse. She had killed a lot of people, today. Only the mob and ringleader, of course, the person she should have put an end to was still living it up in the chantry. To make it worse, all attempts at talking to Fenris had ended in suddenly awkward silences and the shuffling of feet. By the time she'd stumbled back into the compound, weak and heartbroken, to return the dead men's weapons to the Arishok, she'd lacked the strength to climb the stairs to him, but her head would not rest.

Around and around and around. Fenris was in love with her. She almost wished she didn't know. She'd paid the price for the knowledge in his easy comfort around her, in the casual touch of his hand, in the quiet intimacy of his attention.

His confession hung there, between them, a dead fish strung up to rot. His touch had gained import, his attention had gained meaning. Even the physical closeness of him, even in the middle of battle, was filled to overflowing with new found revelation.

He could keep his love, if she could have his touch back.

"You are not attending," Tamassran said, a note of disapproval entering her normally smooth voice.

"Forgive me, I'm distracted."

The woman turned her head to look at Hawke, her eyes narrow, "You are upset at the loss of karasten?"

Hawke raised her brows, "Well, yes. But that's not the distracting part."

"What is the distracting part?"

Hawke gave the other woman a wry grin, "Men, of course."

Tamassran nodded knowingly, "You still seek sexual release from the Arishok."

Hawke had given up entirely on blushing by her third talk with the woman -- she was brutal in her directness, and found blushing to be both wasteful and highly amusing. Instead she just laughed, "Among others." She raised a hand before the Tamassran could reply, "That was a joke." She cleared her throat then, looking away, trying to figure out how to explain things, "I seek touch more than release. Holding. That human thing we discussed."

"And you have said that it only has meaning with a partner of your choosing," Tamassran was silent for a while as she pondered. Her face went still, her eyes distant. Hawke knew better than to think she wasn't paying attention. Finally she looked up, "I will assign the Arishok to hold you."

Hawke gaped at her, "Okay, one, the fact that you can assign the Arishok to cuddle is wondrous beyond all reason, and two, I'm not sure I'd survive whatever pay back he'd come up with for the indignity."

The woman grunted, "Cuddle or not, you will attend, now."

"Yes, messere," Hawke said with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sections of the Qun that are not quoted from Dragon Age are paraphrased or quoted from the Tao Te Ching.
> 
> Why? Because I think it was used as an inspiration. Consider:
> 
>  _From wisdom of the world comes wisdom of the self. Mastery of the self is mastery of the world. Loss of the self is the source of suffering._  
>  \-- The Qun, Canto 1
> 
>  _Those who understand others are intelligent. Those who understand themselves are enlightened. Those who overcome others have strength. Those who overcome themselves are powerful._  
>  \-- Tao Te Ching, 33: 1-2
> 
> There are massive and obvious differences between the Qun and Taoism, but much of the holy writing is close enough to twist to my purposes. If you're interested in what the Tao Te Ching actually says: http://www.taoism.net/ttc/complete.htm


	48. In Which the Night Isn't All That Terrifying

"Fizzgig. I should have known."

The marketing demon slid into the chair vacated by Feynriel and leaned back, putting his feet up on the desk. He was wearing his good looking Fereldan Nobleman face, though it was changed. Probably for her benefit, considering the shoulders were broader, the chest filled out, and the complete lack of a shirt. He grinned at her, "Hawke, baby. It's been too long."

"You know this demon?" Justice wasn't looking at Fizzgig, he was watching Hawke, eyes narrowed.

"Justice, Fizzgig. Fizzgig, Justice."

The demon snorted softly, "Oh, look who's the judgemental one. Of the two of us, I'm the only one not currently possessing anybody." He swept up to his feet and grabbed Hawke's hand before she could move, pulling her against his chest. He'd changed her clothing while he was at it, she noticed as she stumbled in the suddenly high heels. She was in a tight black dress, the top cut scandalously low, and the slit in the long skirt cut scandalously high, "But really," he continued, ignoring the spirit though the words were still obviously meant for his ears, "With a name like that, the pucker probably comes with the package."

Fizzgig spun Hawke away, then pulled her back, dancing to music that had just started playing, coming from a band in the corner, the small office having morphed into a ballroom when she hadn't been looking.

"Ladies. Ladies, I must insist that you leave off… Remove that hand!" Hawke turned her head, letting Fizzgig drag her around the dance floor as she watched Justice suddenly get swarmed by a small horde of rather luscious wood nymphs.

"That's never going to work," she said, actually grinning at the poor spirit trying to untangle one from his leg.

"Of course not, kitten. But for a little while, I do have you all to mys…"

"Unhand her!"

"Oh!" The demon's eyebrows raised in mock surprise, "How could I forget him?" He turned Hawke to embrace her from behind, leaning down to rest his chin on her shoulder as he gazed at the elf, "He is a feisty one, isn't he? I can see the attraction," One hand slid down over her navel possessively, taunting Fenris, daring him to do something. Unfortunately, that great big sword wasn't any help while Hawke was between them.

"You know he's going to kill you, right?"

Fizzgig huffed, as if she had called him an amateur again and turned her back around, going back to the dance as if the elf no longer mattered, "I do excel at creating demand, sweetness." He smiled a slow, lazy smile at her, "But I think you're rooting for me." He placed a foot behind hers and leaned forward, pushing her backward into a dip as he picked up a leg and pulled it snug against his waist, fingertips dancing up the back of her thigh and under the slit in her skirt.

Hawke hissed in a breath and shifted her hips, closing off access, and she could swear the demon pouted at her, "I took Feynriel away," she said.

"Yes, you're an infuriating little minx, and we're going to have a very serious meeting about that, later," He lifted her back up and dropped her leg, "When your elf isn't here to smile at me. I do believe I've outstayed my welcome, precious." He smiled at her again and leaned forward to brush his lips against her ear lobe, whispering, "Think of me, later. When you… soothe the ache."

With that, Fizzgig dissolved and a yell from across the room caught her attention. She spun around. The wood nymphs were attacking. Of course. She rushed to join the fighting while the marketing demon made his escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Call out to my man Zevran in the Fade.


	49. In Which We All Have a Good Cry

The door opened behind her and Hawke squeezed her eyes closed, gritting her teeth, "Bodahn, if that's another cup of tea, I swear…"

"It's me," Fenris said softly, closing the door behind him. Hawke breathed a soft sigh of relief and relaxed her jaw, though she still didn't look back at him. The wall had all her attention, her eyes tracing the intricate patterns in the wallpaper.

A moment passed before she could hear him moving again. He walked towards the bed, stopped at the foot, just out of sight. Hawke blinked several times, swallowing. Another moment before he moved again, walking around to the side of the bed in front of her. She finally looked at him, but didn't say anything.

He was watching her, again, but that was better than any other offer of condolence she'd had to deal with, today. He didn't try to make it better. He just held her eyes for a long second before he slid down to his knees, leaning forward to reach under her bed. He felt around before finding her box and slid in out onto the rug.

He gave her one more look, the same look Anders had given her before he had fixed the shoulder she'd dislocated once. The elf looked down then, pulling the lid off the box, setting it aside carefully. He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a long lock of grey hair, held with a faded pink ribbon.

Bethany, Ketojan, Carver, Mother.

Fenris put the braid into the box and replaced the lid. Her breath hitched. The elf lifted the box and set it gently on the bed next to her and she reached for it, pulling it close to her chest. His fingertips lingered on the top corner before he pulled away, letting her have it. Their eyes met, holding for just slightly longer than considered appropriate in the polite circles her mother frequented before the elf stood again, moving back towards the door.

"Fenris."

His footsteps paused and she heard cloth shifting as he turned, "Hawke," he replied, his normal growl now smoothed out and silken.

"Could you…" She trailed off in a soft gasp, her voice thick with emotion. She swallowed and tried again, "Please… I…" She bit her lip and closed her eyes again, unable to go on.

She hadn't needed to. The elf was already complying, the sound of cloth and a coin purse hitting the floor, buckles being unfastened. The metallic clanking of his gauntlets and thin breastplate dropping to a chair, more cloth, and then he was moving, footsteps, the bed shifting behind her, slow and almost hesitant as he crawled across the expanse to her.

A pause, then a soft touch at her elbow, trailing up toward her shoulder, a precursor to his weight settling into the bed at her back. One bare arm slid under her neck, over her shoulder and the other wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against his chest, her head now resting on his bicep. He held her stiffly, uncertain, much the way one might hold a tame dragon, before she reached back, finding his waist and pulling him closer.

Finally, slowly, he leaned into her, letting his weight settle gently against her back, his body soft for perhaps the first time since she'd met him, draped over her warm and heavy and concealing. The world would never find her, hidden in his arms, secure in his embrace.

Hawke relaxed into the safe haven of Fenris, and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed the 50 subscriptions mark, sometime yesterday. So instead, we're holding the somewhat more shabby and thrown together 55 subscriptions celebration. In between the tears, of course.


	50. In Which I'm a Horrible Person

Hawke woke to the smell of lyrium and sandalwood, the feel of soft skin against her cheek, and the bone-deep exhaustion of crying herself to sleep. She had to rub at her eyes before they would open, and when they did, she was conflicted about whether she should keep them that way.

It wasn't just Fenris' arms that were bare, so was his chest, the lyrium running in lines down his sternum and over his ribs, curling into exquisite patterns over his sides. Her brows furrowed, staring at them. There was something horribly wrong with a world in which the scars of slavery and torture could be so breathtaking.

She looked up at his face, instead, and smiled. The elf was sweet, in repose, his usual glower replaced by full, soft lips and a carefree brow. His hair had caught the mid morning sun from the window and glowed molten silver in the light, falling in a gentle wave over his eyes. She resisted brushing it back, afraid to wake him, lest he untangle himself and pull away.

She couldn't (she told herself and tried very hard to believe) resist pressing closer, her hand sliding over his shoulder and down one pectoral, her fingertips catching in the dip between his abdominal muscles. She'd always thought herself attracted to big chests, broad shoulders, the most obvious trappings of manhood, Fenris was different. Just as well muscled, but compact, sleek and graceful, a tiger stood up next to bears.

Completely hairless, she noticed, too, though he still had that tantalizing little line. The slightest dip in the middle, barely noticeable next to the larger dip above his belly button, but easily felt with her tentative, curious fingertips, tracing it down to where it disappeared into the band of his pants, slung low around his hips. And more from where his obliques met his abs, tracing twin lines over his hips to vanish into that infuriatingly opaque cloth.

One fingertip slid (quite by accident, of course) into the band of the pants where a hollow in his musculature created an opening. They were nice pants, well made, the fabric soft, and very slightly stretchy, making enough room for two fingers that she was absolutely going to remove, now. Soon. Eventually. Maker, but the muscle on that hip was the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen.

The hip in question moved and she snatched her fingers away guiltily, but it didn't stop, rolling forward to press the now obvious morning erection against her navel before coming to a stop.

Oh, sweet Maker. Oh, benevolent Andraste. Oh, she was being punished. Punished for her many and varied sins.

Hawke squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled slowly, staying remarkably still for all that she wanted to pounce, and hold the elf down and rub every inch of her over every inch of him, to slide down onto that agonizingly close cock until she could feel it in the deepest part of her that begged so desperately to be touched. To let him soothe the sick longing, the raging, hungry fire that she had spent three years stoking, that open wound she kept rubbing salt in just to prove she was still human.

Instead, she laid a hand very carefully on his hip and bit her tongue until the pain brought her back to her senses. Then she looked up to see forest green eyes looking down at her.

She jerked in surprise, feeling the heat wash over her face as she flushed what had to be a remarkable flavor of scarlet, "Fenris," she squeaked before clearing her throat and trying for a more normal tone of voice that only ended up coming out low and throaty, "Good morning."

The elf didn't say anything for what felt like eternity, watching her with a sort of wondering look on his face before he moved, resting a hand against her cheek, "You are a beautiful woman, Hawke," he murmured in that sultry growl before he leaned towards her. The movement caused his hips to move, pressing that lovely, _oh so lovely,_ erection against her navel again and he froze, his eyes going wide before he cleared his throat, "I… should go."

"Go?" Hawke repeated, as if he had suggested mooning the Knight Commander. He pulled away and stood up, facing away from her to hide his arousal. Hawke crawled after him, "You don't have to go. You could stay. We could…" _fuck like bunnies, please, sweet maker, please,_ "Eat breakfast."

Fenris slid his shirt on and picked up the rest of his clothing, "I have a… There's a… I have to go."

Hawke dropped to her stomach at the edge of the bed, staring at his back, willing him to turn around, to drop his clothing, to come back and not leave, ever, "But I…" The door opened and the elf slipped away.


	51. Because Arishok Cuddles

If this was cuddling with the Arishok, Hawke was sorely disappointed. Sure, she was sitting on his lap, her legs wrapped around his waist, being crushed against his almost overly impressive chest. But he was holding her there with an iron grip on the back of her head, smooshing her face against his shoulder, his other hand slapping her back to the beat of a drum that one of the Karasten was marking time with in the corner.

Tamassran had apparently figured out human cuddling by watching a new mother burp her baby.

Hawke wasn't sure if this was supposed to be encouragement, or a punishment. Tamassran kept smiling at her, but both the Arishok and Karasten looked like soldiers on a forced death march. Boomslap. Boomslap. Boomslap. She was going to have a bruise from neck to thighs by the time this was over.

This was easily the least sexy thing that had ever happened to her. It was so not sexy, it was making her morning Fenris rub seem unsexy by association. Hawke was beginning to consider if throwing up on the Arishok would end this torment, but Maker knows they'd just march through it with little more than the sighs of already condemned men finding out that their last supper would be plain beans and rice. Boomslap. Boomslap. Boomslap.

Tamassran was still talking, "The highest goodness resembles water. Water greatly benefits myriad things without contention. It stays in places that people dislike. Therefore it is similar to the Qun. Dwelling with the right location. Feeling with great depth. Giving with great kindness. Speaking with great integrity. Governing with great administration. Handling with great capability. Moving with great timing. Because it does not contend, it is beyond contention."

"I hate you, you cow," Hawke said. Tried to say. With her mouth forced open and his lips squished by the cuddling, it came out closer to 'Ihayoohoohoww.' Little bits of spittle and drool dripped from her lips onto the Arishok's shoulder. He, of course, soldiered on, boomslap.

The woman seemed to take that as agreement, or at least acknowledgement of understanding, nodded, and kept talking.

"Uh. Chuckles?" Oh, good. The only thing this entire nightmare had been missing was her friends standing around watching. Thank the Maker, Varric had shown up. Now no one would ever miss this experience. It would be told and retold and embellished until all of Thedas knew that Marian Hawke had been involved in some kinky Qunari sex thing involving drums and spit and belching.

"Ohahhay!" Hawke yelled.

Varric, of course, couldn't understand her, "Broody? You want to explain this?"

"I am not familiar with this ritual."

"Well," Varric said, pausing for just a second before continuing, "I guess we'll just sit here and watch. You okay with that, Hawke?"

"Arrraohawweeyoohuheeeaahrroh!" Boomslap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sneer wanted Arishok cuddles. I wrote you Arishok cuddles.
> 
> On a side note, I've crossposted this to fanfiction.net, but they're 1-3 days behind, because I love you guys, more.


	52. In Which Hawke and Fenris Reach an Accord

"It's a book, Fenris. If it has kicked your puppy for the last time, throw it in the fire. It'll burn," Hawke waved a hand, unwilling to enter an argument over a gift and spun around, striding for the door.

She made it two steps before she was brought up short by the elf's arms closing around her shoulders, pulling her back into him, strong hands gripping tightly and the feel of his face buried in her hair. Hawke stood uncertainly, one hand raising to hover over his forearm for several seconds before she let the arm drop. She knew better than to thrash about when the deer were poking out of the forest. Be still, and wait.

Nothing else happened, though. She could hear him, breathing quietly, but he didn't move. His hands stayed perfectly still, one on her shoulder just to the side of her neck, the other crossed under her breasts to the ribs on her side. She shifted her weight, which caused his arms to tighten as if she might be preparing to flee. Hawke had never been famous for her patience, "I really am pleased to teach you how to read…"

Fenris moved, then, the hand on her shoulder sliding up over her neck, long fingers brushing over her lips to stop the flow of words before returning to it's previous spot. Hawke counted each rush of blood through her neck, feeling her own pulse, heightened by his touch. She made it to 42 before she moved again, her own hand sliding back around her side to brush his hip. He shifted the hip away from her and growled low against the back of her neck, "Can you not be still, woman?"

 _No. Obviously._ She clenched her teeth, feeling her face warm in a quickly suppressed flash of anger. The uncertainty was beginning to gnaw at her. What did he want from her? "I don't know what to do, Fenris," she whispered, one shoulder lifting awkwardly at the confession.

"Do nothing," the elf replied, the growl smoothing out, then went silent again. The clock standing under the grand staircase in the stolen mansion ticked maliciously at her. The fire crackled. Fenris breathed. Hawke closed her eyes. When she'd finally proven that she could, in point of fact, be still, the elf came out of hiding.

He nosed at the back of her head, urging it to drop forward and gaining access to press his lips against the back of her neck, sending a rush of shivers down her spine. One hand slid down from her ribs to rub possessively over her navel, an obvious mirror to how he'd seen Fizzgig touch her in the fade, though he wasn't taunting anyone. There was no other man here to peacock for, the message was for her. He may not be winning any races getting to that particular finish line, but he wanted to be the only one in the running.

As if to drive the point home, he rolled his hips deliberately against her rear, letting her feel his arousal. The muscles in her stomach tightened under his palm and she arched back against him gently, returning the favor. He made a soft sound in her ear, a grumbly murmur of appreciation before he stepped back from her, his hands sliding away, one lingering on her hip before it, too, fell away, "Thank you," he said softly. Possibly for the book, possibly for standing still, possibly for the unspoken accord she had a feeling she'd just entered into, possibly just for sharing his need. He didn't explain, and it didn't seem important to ask.

She stood where she was, staring at the door, breathing heavily. Hawke had options. There were always options. She could turn around, rush him, press him against a wall, he would give himself over willingly enough. She could have him. Right now, tonight, in front of his fire, possibly right there against the wall, wherever they happened to fall when she finally peeled those pants away from the prize.

The clock ticked, the fire crackled, Fenris breathed. She could crash through the underbrush and catch that deer, but she couldn't keep it, that way. It would bolt at the first opportunity. If she wanted to be his dragon, she needed to prove she was tame.

"Any time," she answered, just as softly, with just as many meanings attached before she left, not looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. I am, in fact, going to make you beg.


	53. The Quiet Before the Storm

"You know this cannot continue, Hawke," Arishok said softly, behind her.

Hawke blew out a breath, her hands tightening. She didn't turn to look up at him, preferring to watch Fenris, now leaning against a wall with the karasten below, watching her. She did know that. It had kind of been Petrice's whole plan, to ensure that this could not continue. Petrice was dead, Seamus was dead, uncounted faceless people on both sides were dead, the Viscount had been unable to do anything useful even before he was an emotional wreck, and somehow Hawke kept getting there too late to stop the next in a long line of travesties.

Finally, she rubbed the back of her hand over her forehead and pressed her shoulders down from where they had started creeping up, sensing the impending disaster, "I'm so sorry, Arishok."

A grunt and the sound of him shifting on his bench, "You would take responsibility for the actions of these wretched bas? You did none of this."

"No, but I can't stand around and just let it happen, either. I seem to be the only person left willing to try, not sure if you've noticed," she finally turned her shoulders to smile up at him.

The Arishok just shook his great horned head at her, not looking down, "In the four years we have been trapped here, you were always the only human worthy."

"That's not true. Mother was found worthy, and I have the pink tasseled battle axes to prove it."

He narrowed his eyes at her, "Karasten's standards are not mine."

Hawke narrowed her eyes back before she sat up straighter, her brows raising, "Arishok. Are you about to give me my own set of cutlery?"

"You have no need of weapons, Hawke." He leaned forward, resting one elbow on his knees while the other hand reached out, his clawed fingers carefully lifting one of her earlobes, "I will give you rings."

Hawke arched a brow. That was going to hurt, but she wasn't about to refuse. Rings in her ears sounded far less traumatic than a collar, "You honor me, Arishok."

"You honor yourself, Hawke." He waved at one of the men standing around, who nodded and left before looking back at her, "Will you seek to be viddathari?"

Hawke pressed her lips together, looking back down at Fenris, "All due respect, Arishok, I'm fairly sure the only thing keeping me out of a collar is _not_ seeking to be viddathari."

"You still do not understand the Qun," the Arishok said in what might have been a morose tone on anyone else, but on him sounded like the rumbling of distant thunder.

"Neither did you, your first year in it."

He arched a brow at her, "You are smarter than I was, my first year."

"And better looking. Somewhat more eloquent." The Arishok grunted and shooed her away. She stood up and started down the stairs towards where Fenris was waiting with that still slightly unnerving smile he liked to torture her with, "Far better with eating utensils."


	54. In Which Isabela Returns

"Isabela," Hawke said, looking down at the woman from the top landing, surprised to see her, "Been a while."

"Yeah, well," the pirate said, not quite looking at her, fiddling with the pommel of one of her daggers, "Life all got in the way. But I need help."

Hawke moved down the stairs, narrowing her eyes, "What's up?"

Isabela took a deep breath, looking up Hawke before she arched a brow, "Well. Never thought you'd go all pirate," she waved a hand, motioning at the four square golden rings Hawke now had dangling from one ear.

Hawke grinned, "Arishok stabbed me with the needle himself. Almost as painful as it looks."

The other woman's brows raised, "You mean the Qunari…" She snapped her teeth closed with a soft click and looked down, furrowing her brows, "Look, I'm in trouble."

"When aren't you?" Both women turned towards the door to see Aveline striding in, leveling one of her special disapproving looks at Isabela.

"Aveline! Is the whole gang showing up, or is this just the lady's night we kept promising to pencil in?"

"Hawke," Aveline replied, ignoring the joke, "I need your help with the Arishok."

"Oh, the bloody Arishok! What about my problems?!" Isabela threw her hands up and spun around, pacing in front of the fireplace.

"We'll have nine months to figure out who the daddy is," Aveline dismissed the pirate, turning back to Hawke, "He's sheltering a couple of criminals who claim to have converted to the Qun and we…"

"I could die!" Isabela cut in.

"Okay!" Hawke raised her arms, "Everybody just slow down, now."

Aveline and Isabela glared daggers at each other, but stopped talking and Hawke took a breath, closing her eyes. _Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against._ She nodded, opening her eyes, "Right. Aveline. There's no way he'll turn over viddathari to a chantry court. Isabela, who do we have to hurt?"

Both women started talking at once and Hawke held her hands up again, "Ladies!" They quieted down again, and she rubbed her forehead. The Arishok made command look so easy. Bastard. "One at a time. Isabela?"

The pirate pursed her lips at Aveline before speaking, "It's the relic, the one Castillon's going to kill me over? I know where it is, and now we have to go get it."

Hawke nodded, "Right. Aveline?"

"I can't just let him shelter fugitives, Hawke. Not in my city."

"Aveline…" Hawke shook her head, "Imagine, for a second, asking the Divine to turn over a couple of chantry converts to the Qun."

"Grand Cleric Elthina turned Mother Petrice over to justice. You told me so yourself."

"To a chantry court, Aveline! She murdered a citizen of the Qun, do you think for a second she would have turned her over to the Arishok?"

"Uhhh! I should have known! I should have known you'd never help me!" Isabela suddenly cut in, causing both women to spin in surprise.

Hawke opened her mouth to reply before Aveline just kept arguing, "The Arishok isn't a proper court, Hawke! He's got a compound in the docks!"

Hawke whirled back on the guard captain, "He's a bleeding world leader, if he's sitting in the gutter with the street rats, Aveline!"

"You're just going to let me die! Just like you let him die!"

That stopped the argument. Aveline and Hawke both turned slowly on the pirate, Hawke's eyes hard, "What did you say?"

"You just let him die! You left him to die in the dark with…" she went silent suddenly and turned away. The pirate was crying. Isabela was crying.

Hawke felt her world shift on it's axis, "Bela… Were you… Were you in..." She wasn't even sure how to end that sentence. She had known they were sleeping together, she had known Isabela had stopped sleeping around. But somehow, she'd still just assumed it was a lark.

"Hardly matters, now," the pirate said before she waved a hand and walked for the door.

Hawke followed her, "Isabela. Isabela!" The pirate made it out the door and Hawke floundered before turning back to Aveline, "Look, Aveline. Just… Just don't, okay? I promise you it will not end well. Please. I need to… She's gonna get herself killed." Hawke sprinted out the door after the pirate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you were wondering why she was so scarce...


	55. In Which Hawke Makes a Choice

Hawke ransacked the body desperately, but the short note was the only thing left, "Nononono," she was murmuring to herself as she stumbled back to her feet with the help of Fenris at her shoulder. She looked around the empty streets.

"Maybe she'll come back," Merrill murmured, giving Hawke a slight smile before she furrowed her brows and looked back down at the stone underfoot.

"Bela!" Hawke spun, looking up at the rooftops, "Bela! I didn't know!" Her own voice echoed back at her, the only answer, "I didn't know," she repeated, soft this time.

"You could not have," Fenris answered her, still holding her arm, "You were otherwise… engaged."

"I have to…" Hawke trailed off. What? Now what? She let the note drop and stood up straight, resting a hand on the elf's arm before pulling away. _Struggle is an illusion._ "I have to tell the Arishok I lost his relic."

"Hawke," Fenris' voice was low, growly. His concerned growl. She could assign emotions to his growls, she'd known him so long. She found herself coughing in a sort of desperate laughter and waved her hand when Varric furrowed his brows at her.

"Uh. Chuckles, are you sure that's a good idea?"

"No," she answered, "It's just the only idea left." She walked past him, back out to the main street and directly into the path of a man, sprinting down the road. He collided with her side and spun her around.

He didn't even stop to look back, yelling, "The giants are attacking! Run!"

Hawke gaped at the man before she turned towards the docks. Behind him, a slew of other towns folk fleeing in panic. An explosion rocked the street and sent people sprawling. Hawke stumbled to one side, catching herself on a wall as a building across the way went up in flames.

The crowd, those that hadn't been knocked down in the blast and were now being trampled by their countrymen, overtook them before Hawke could get back to her feet and she had to struggle for every step forward, frightened people throwing themselves headlong into the night, bouncing off each other and walls. The shrieking was almost louder than the sounds of battle erupting around them. Not all of it from the direction of the docks.

Aveline found her, running up the stairs behind the main crowd, protecting their backs.

Hawke shook her head at the look on the guard captain's face, "Aveline," she said, "Why? Why?! I told you not to! Maker, Aveline!"

"I had to do it, Hawke," the woman's face was set in a grim, tight line, "But this…" She looked around, swinging her sword as if to indicate something, "Maker, this isn't a riot, Hawke. This is an invasion. This was planned. Has been planned, for months, at least."

"If you think there wasn't a contingency plan within months of them arriving, you haven't been paying attention," she snarled at the other woman before holding up a hand and taking a breath. This wasn't Aveline's fault. This was just… Inevitable, and had been for a while. She'd been bailing out the ship with a teaspoon for a year, now, "We have to get to the keep. Get the…" She waved a hand vaguely, not bothering to finish that thought, "I'll find him. Aveline, save as many as you can, and get them out of the city."

-=-=-=-

"Shanedan, Hawke," the Arishok said, his great axe slung over his shoulder carelessly.

Hawke looked up from the Viscount's head. She wasn't sure she would have recognized the Empress of Orlais, or Queen Anora if she found them in the gutter with the street rats, but him, she would know in her bones. Authority radiated from him like heat. He was a force of nature, a hurricane, and everything in his path would bend to his will or be broken. She remembered, viscerally, why she should have been afraid, why she was a fool to have forgotten.

"Shanedan, Arishok," she said softly. Her eyes slid away to run over the faces of the nobles, the karasten and karashok lining the walls, the serebas with their keepers. She swallowed and gathered the skirts of her robe in one hand, stepping daintily over the Viscount's head and striding directly towards the Arishok.

He tilted his head at her, one corner of his lips quirking as if amused, "Once, you trembled before me, a leaf in the wind."

She stopped at the foot of the stairs, back straight, looking up at him, "I'm still a leaf, and you're still the wind, Arishok. I just let go of the ground."

He pinned her there with his stare, and said nothing, considering. She could feel her facade crumbling under the assault, and she had to look away, biting her lip and rebuilding before looking back. Whatever she'd done, he seemed to approve as he spoke again, "What would you have me do, Hawke? I cannot leave without the relic, and I cannot stay and remain blind to this dysfunction," his free hand waved at the nobles, "This disease."

Hawke took a breath, then another, releasing her skirts to clasp her hands, white-knuckled, at her waist. She didn't look away from him. She didn't dare to, "A plague must cause suffering for as long as it endures. Earthquakes must shatter the land," she began, hesitant until his eyes widened in interest.

"Asit tal-eb. It is to be," he responded, almost by rote and she pressed her lips together, nodding.

"They are bound by their being," she continued, her voice dropping, "So why isn't Kirkwall?" She held her hands up before the Arishok could launch into a lecture, "Just. Listen. Why must Kirkwall be put to rights? It's a plague. These nobles are locusts. They are what they must be. They are what they were bound to be," she gasped in a quivering breath, "The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. This struggle is an illusion, too."

The Arishok growled at her, striding down the stairs to loom over her, half intrigued at her quoting of scripture, half angry at her appropriation of it, "You claim this is natural?"

"No, Arishok," she breathed, unable to keep her voice strong with him standing so close, "Only that it is."

"You seek to cause doubt in my purpose."

"Doubt is the path one walks to reach faith. To leave the path is to embrace blindness and abandon hope."

He narrowed his eyes at her, "If the rulers' trust is insufficient, have no trust in them."

Hawke clenched her teeth before speaking again, the words tumbling out in a chaotic rush, desperate and grasping at straws, "When the world knows beauty as beauty, ugliness arises. When it knows good as good, evil arises. Thus being and non-being produce each other. Struggle and serenity support each other."

The Arishok tilted his head, "Which canto is that?"

Hawke felt her breath hitch, and the first heavy tears slide down her cheeks, "I… made it up."

He lowered his chin, but gave her a smile, holding his hand out to her, "Basilt'an," he said softly.

She gave him her hand and lowered her head, breathing deeply for a moment, safe in his care, before she looked back up, whispering, "I swear to you, I will find your tome. Please, Arishok. Kadan. Please, don't do this."

"You will challenge me for this city?"

No. No, she would happily watch the city burn. She'd help him light the match. She'd stand around and watch it slide off into the sea with a smile on her lips and a song in her heart. If only… Her eyes slid to one side, catching on Fenris. Not the city. Never the city, "Yes," she answered.

"Then you leave me no choice." He squeezed her fingers with his thumb, "Taarsidath-an halsaam, Hawke," he said, and dropped her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note. Some of these vignettes happened in my head before I ever wrote them. Most of them are written spur of the moment, whether I'm feeling them or not. This may explain any wild shifts in quality.


	56. In Which Hawke Sleeps a Lot

There had been screaming. Most of it from Hawke's lips. Shrieking, fruitless pleas for the Arishok to yield, heartbreaking wails as they dragged her away from him when he finally fell, fingers clawing for purchase on his armor. Some of it had been from the nobles, when he'd caught her in the gut and the fight suddenly went bloody. At least one from Fenris, his hands tight around her wound, red and slick, trying to hold the blood in with sheer force of will, screaming at Anders to do something, do something, _do something!_

Hawke didn't remember much after that. A sense of being the fade, the familiar touch of Fizzgig, asking him if she was dead. A vision of his head rising from her stomach, face covered from cheekbones down in dark streaks of blood, dripping from the many, needle fine teeth as he'd grinned at her, forked tongue darting out to lick his lips. Not yet, he'd said. Not _quite_ yet.

Merrill had fussed. Varric had fussed. Sebastian had prayed. Bodahn fed them tea. Aveline stumbling through an apology, insisting that she'd never meant for Hawke to pay the price, that it should have been her. Fenris crawling carefully onto her bed to lie beside her, holding her hand. Anders sitting beside the bed, whispering weighty words, unremembered but dark with dire import.

Her first clear memory had been Cullen, slipping through the door to settle comfortably in the chair that Anders had dragged beside the bed. He'd picked up her hand and held it, and told her that her dispensation had been made permanent. Her reward for being the Champion of Kirkwall, but Hawke had known better. She was feared, now. She had gained the only real power this city recognized. She hadn't said that, just smiling at him and squeezing his hand when he told her about the progress he was making at the Circle. He had put Turner in charge of the night guard, and had undertaken to know every mage by name. Meredith had put a stop to some of Cullen's initiatives, but he had hope she would come around, if he could show progress.

He hadn't forgotten, what she'd said, what he'd promised.

Today, though, Hawke was sitting up in bed, and Fenris was seated next to her, torturing her via the age old holding spoons of porridge under her nose. She stared at him. He stared back. It was an epic battle of wills. Ballad worthy, had anyone but the two of them been watching.

"Not hungry."

"Don't care."

She narrowed her eyes at him, "Maybe if you made baby bird noises…"

"Peep peep," he grumbled flatly, waving the spoon around.

"Okay, so I was bluffing."

"I know."

She huffed and straightened the blankets around her hips, "I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself, Fenris."

He arched a brow at her, "Yes, and absolutely no one has noticed Mangy licking his lips and putting on weight."

Hawke looked down at the foot of the bed where the mabari was lying on his back, legs splayed, tongue lolling out one side of his mouth, dead to the world, "Mangy! Have you been stealing Sandal's food, again?! Bad dog!" He thumped his tail against the bed, but made no move to defend himself.

Fenris sighed and set the spoon back into the bowl, "I was thinking if you ate something, you might be strong enough to have a real bath."

Hawke peered at him suspiciously.

He stirred the porridge around before gathering up another spoonful, "You'd need assistance, of course," he murmured in his bedroom growl and looked up at her from under his lashes.

"That's cheating."

"I know."


	57. In Which Fenris Makes Bathtime Lots of Fun

Fenris worked the soap through her hair with the sort of focus he gave to every task, the attention one would expect from someone who didn't know the meaning of half measure. He didn't leer at her naked breasts, he didn't stare at her new scar, he didn't even frown at the earrings she was still wearing, though everyone else had seemed to find her attachment to them morbid.

He watched her hair, and she watched him. He was sitting on the little stool next to the great tub, his shirt off though he'd kept his pants. Hawke had expected to be awkward and stumbling, complete with her stuttering failure to form complete sentences. That did seem to be how all of her interactions with attractive men had always gone, but all she could manage to feel was a deep and abiding sense of comfort. There was no one else she'd rather be there, and she certainly didn't want to be alone with her thoughts.

"You haven't congratulated me on my new title," she said, her fingertips tracing the molding on the rim of the tub.

The elf grunted softly at that, his brows furrowing, "You were forced to kill a man you admired… Loved, possibly," he caught her eyes for a second before looking back at her hair, "I am not certain that congratulations are in order."

Hawke looked away, her eyes trailing over the gilded looking glass and the marble topped vanity, the smooth Antivan tiled floor. Everyone else in the city had been sending invitations to celebrations and gushing about how wonderful everything was. Her friends had the wisdom to keep silent, but this was the first time anyone had mentioned that mourning might actually be the appropriate response.

Fenris dunked his hands in the water at her back and filled the simple earthenware pitcher before lifting her chin with a couple of fingertips to rinse her hair. That done, he brushed the wet strands over one shoulder to expose her back and shifted the little stool around to sit behind her, picking up the brush.

"That doesn't bother you?" Hawke asked after nearly a minute of silence.

The brush slowed before stopping. The elf took a breath, "On the contrary. If you could love the Arishok… perhaps…" Hawke moved to look back at him, but his fingers caught her chin before she could. A pause, then she heard him kick the stool back and felt him kneel behind her, pulling her shoulders back to rest against the sloped side of the tub, his other hand joining the first at her neck after dropping the brush.

His low, throaty voice was near her ear when he spoke again, softly, "Hawke, I don't know what this is, or where it's going, but I very much…" A soft, frustrated breath, his fingertips tightening on her shoulders, "I cannot give you what you crave. Not now, maybe not ever. The markings… There's pain and flashes of… the time before." A couple of fingertips traced the tendon in her neck lightly, "Memories I cannot bear to feel and then lose again."

Hawke stared at the wall across the room. She wasn't sure if this was him ending it, she wasn't sure she wanted to know, but she did know that whatever it was he wanted to say, he wasn't finished yet, and she was afraid any movement on her part would break the spell, push him away, send him running like every emotion other than anger he'd ever seemed to feel in her presence.

He was petting her now, his palms smoothing down the sides of her neck and out over her shoulders, his forehead resting lightly against the crown of her head, "I know I hold no claim on your heart. I know that I do not even have the right to ask it…"

"I'm yours," Hawke said softly, the words forcing themselves out of her throat before she could stop them, but they felt right. Fenris went very still behind her, holding his breath. She found his hand and pulled it from her shoulder, kissing his palm lightly before she set it down very deliberately against her sternum and repeated, each syllable clearly enunciated, "I am yours."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenris duckie, you're the one ♪


	58. Interlude, The Second

Fenris didn't love her. He hated her. Loathed her. His whole tormented suitor act had been to lull her into a false sense of security. He wanted to make her suffer. That was the only reasonable explanation. That was why he kept finding new and interesting ways to torture her.

You'd think, after three years of fending off Fizzgig, she'd be immune, but the elf was crafty. Patient and creative, with a fanatical devotion to his cruelty that bordered on sadism. If Hawke didn't think Sebastian would have burst into the flames while listening to her evidence for his evil, she might have asked him to sit Fenris down for some good, old fashioned, fiery Maker speeches about wickedness. Alas, the only person in the chantry she could trust also happened to have a blush response that would make preteen girls roll their eyes.

When the smiles stopped working, he took to staring at her lips. Just standing there, about half an inch closer than normal, while she was trying to tell a story, or a joke, or give directions, or breathe, and there he was, bold as brass, green eyes lingering until she forgot what happened next, or the punchline, or the street name, or to breathe.

Then, he started maliciously stinking up her house, leaving the scent of him on her couch, on her sheets and pillows, until she couldn't walk from one room to the next without being assaulted with the vaguely metallic taste of ozone from the lyrium, and sandalwood. An oncoming thunderstorm in a jungle, and it was soaked into her clothing, as if the elf were sneaking in while she was out to rub himself against her stuff. She wouldn't put it past him.

He started talking to her. His special evil talking. She wished she'd had the presence of mind to not react the first time he leaned close to her during a reading lesson and murmured something in Tevene, right next to her ear. She'd shivered and hitched her shoulders, giggling like the girls at Blooming Rose on Feather Day. This reaction had, of course, so fascinated the elf that he did it again, and again, and when she fell over sideways and tried to roll off the couch he had followed her, crawling over top of her and holding her down while he growled that low, sultry voice, directly against her ear.

She didn't even understand the language, he could have been reciting grocery lists or talking about how much his elbow hurt, but he did it for a full half hour, making her bones vibrate and leaving her a shuddering, arching pile of Hawke-shaped goo. This new torture so pleased the elf that he pulled it out on special occasions, when all the other abuses weren't dragging quite the right pitch of keening from her throat.

The next torture involved fiddling with her buttons. He liked to combine this with his lip staring for extra sin points. Sometimes, if she sat very still and acted extremely normal, he'd manage to get three or four buttons undone before stopping.

Fenris went through a bit of a masochistic streak where he'd take his shirt off and invite her to partake of his nefarious, villainous chest. She'd rather enjoyed that one until he'd wriggled out of her clutches and fled the room. That put a bit of a damper on her gleeful squealing.

Then he wanted to sleep in the same bed. He claimed it was to be "closer" as if he couldn't be closer over there, on the other side of the room, wearing his full, spiked armor and a couple of bodyguards to toss her back over the line when she got antsy and launched herself over the couch. Right. Likely story.

But was he done? Oh, no. Next, he wanted to sleep in less clothing. And then even less than that. And then he crawled in next to her naked flesh wearing not a stitch. When he stretched out at her side, flush against her ribs and nestled the one thing he wouldn't let her have against her hip, she'd made some very unkind insinuations about his parentage. He'd growled, she'd snapped her teeth, but that had only ended in wrestling, which he won. Probably because she was trying very hard to lose in a spectacular fashion. He punished her with more malevolent ear talking.

Hawke had survived three years of Fizzgig, and as much as she sometimes wished she didn't, she survived three years of Fenris, too.


	59. In Which Hawke Reads the Manifesto

The cramped, somewhat sloppy script covered pages Hawke hadn't bothered counting. Front and back, sometimes even turning to slide up one margin at the end of a line. It was not a work of art, but she wasn't being asked to critique his presentation.

Anders sat on the cot across from her in his little Darktown clinic, his hands clasped under his chin, watching her. It made reading more difficult, but at least he wasn't staring at her lips or playing with her buttons.

Hawke finished the last page and took a deep breath, shuffling the pages back into order before she set the short stack on her lap. Anders said nothing, waiting for her to speak. Her eyes took a bit focusing back onto the mage and she nodded slightly, "This is what you've been doing, all this time?" The abomination had been scarce for … what, years now?

He tilted his head at her, eyes slitting, "You don't like it."

"No," she said softly, holding up a hand, "I like it fine, I think you make a lot of good points," she clarified, looking back down at the paper, one fingertip gently ruffling the bottom corner of the stack.

"But…"

She furrowed her brows at him and smiled awkwardly, "Seems a little… Manifesto?"

Anders just stared at her.

"It just seems… I don't get the feeling those ever really work out so good for the authors." She shifted her weight forward on her own cot and reached over to set a hand gently on Anders' knee, "People start wondering who wrote it, and find a possessed apostate run away grey warden… I worry about you, Anders. This is a bit of a sticky topic."

"So the only people allowed to discuss the lives of mages are people with no skin in the game?" His eyes swirled a little blue and his voice lowered, gaining a resonance. Hawke couldn't tell if she was talking to Anders, or his guest, anymore.

She cleared her throat, "A lot of people do think that way. That you'll have a personal agenda."

"This isn't a Sunday Afternoon word puzzle, Red. It's our lives. _Our lives._ You're damn right it's personal." He'd used her name, Justice rarely did that, maybe he was still him.

Hawke looked down at the knee she was still holding. Anders hadn't even reacted to the touch, let alone moved. She didn't stop touching him, though, "I agree, Anders. You know I do. It's asinine to exclude mages from the mage conversation. I just…" She trailed off and looked down, pursing her lips.

Anders suddenly smiled tenderly and picked her hand up off his knee so he could hold it, "You're afraid I'll get hurt."

"Of course I am," she said, glowering up at him, "Have you met Kirkwall? The only people we bother pretending to respect around here have armies. And even that won't save you from the plotting."

Anders stood up to slide over onto her cot next to her and put an arm around her shoulders, "You miss him."

Hawke pursed her lips at the other mage. They both knew that was a diversionary tactic, "Every day. He's a part of my soul. I don't have so much soul that you can just keep carving bits out of it." A pause, an uncomfortable realization, "Was. He was." She shook her head, going back to the point, "Just like you, Anders." She leaned into his side, "Promise me you'll be careful."

The mage pressed her head into his shoulder and rested his cheek against her hair, "I'm not the Arishok, Hawke. I have no intention of invading anything."

It wasn't until much later that Hawke realized that hadn't been a promise. Or even an answer.


	60. In Which Hawke and Merrill Share a Moment

Two out of three. Two of the three renegade mages Knight Commander Meredith had sent her after had to be put down. And the third? He was an idiot. Hawke leaned back in her chair at their corner table in the Hanged Man, smiling brightly at him as he told her all about how powerful he was, now that he'd become a blood mage. She was running low on faith in mage kind, this evening.

She pulled her feet from her slippers and slid them into Fenris' lap under the table. She didn't look at him, he didn't look at her, but his hand came to rest on one crossed ankle, fingertips tracing the tendon at her heel and trailing up under her robe to the back of her knee and back down while he listened to the supposed blood mage at his shoulder brag about how he was going to take down the Templar order.

Hawke took a large drink from her mug of ale before resting it back in her lap, still smiling at the man, nodding, "Yeah. Though, I gotta tell ya, my demon doesn't seem to care about templars at all."

Emile the great and powerful blinked at Hawke and cleared his throat a little, "Oh, you have a demon, too?"

Hawke just kept smiling, "Sure I do. Don't we all? All of us," her voice lowered conspiratorially and she leaned forward, "Blood mages?" She settled back against the chair again, "His name is Fizzgig. He's got really," her eyes flickered to Fenris, catching his eyes briefly, "Talented fingers." The elf made no indication that he'd noticed her look, though he kept sliding his finger gently between her toes.

Hawke turned that brilliant smile on Merrill, sitting next to her, "What about you, Merrill? What's yours named?"

The dalish woman looked up, surprised, "I… ah…"

"That's okay," Hawke interrupted, before Merrill could actually spit out a name. She wasn't sure she wanted to know, "I'm probably just the funny one, being on a first name basis and all," her eyes slid back to Emile.

He laughed, relieved to have an out from thinking up a name, "Right, right. Can't let them too close, you know…"

"You know what my favorite thing was? My favorite time with my demon, I mean?" Hawke tilted her head, her smile frozen to her lips as if painted on, "You'd think it would be all the fondling, right? But no…" Merrill was growing antsy beside her and she reached over to set her hand over where the dalish had hers clasped together in her lap without looking away from Emile. The woman stilled and tilted her head to stare sidelong at Hawke.

"It was when I almost died, and saw him in fade, my own entrails hanging from his teeth. He was chewing on my intestines while he waited for me to die, isn't that adorable?" Fenris' hand clenched around her foot and he grunted, the first time he'd heard this, though he knew she wasn't making up the demon.

Emile's shit eating grin had vanished, and he was now swallowing compulsively, as if he might be sick. Hawke turned her fake smile on Merrill, "What about you, what was your favorite part?" The elf stared back at her with those wide, dark eyes, not saying anything. They'd never talked about it, but they didn't really need to. Hawke had a demon suitor as well, even if she'd never made a deal with him. There was no way Merrill's demon had left her without gristly memories of her own.

"Uh. You know, that's all right. I… really should be going, now. So many…" Emile was sidestepping towards the door, "Things to do."

Hawke released her hold on Merrill as the man turned tail and fled. The table went silent for a long moment as she drank her ale and Fenris held her feet close to his stomach like she were some precious, fragile thing that might already have a crack in it.

Varric cleared his throat, "Five gold says he'll be back in the circle by morning."

"Were I still a gambling man," Sebastian said, his attention squarely fixed on Hawke, "I still wouldn't take that bet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to everyone who has commented or left kudos or come back and kept reading this. You keep this story going.


	61. In Which Fenris Stages His Own Intervention

"Seriously? Demon summoning? In _my_ bar?" Hawke sounded offended.

"Your bar, Chuckles?"

"In Varric's bar?!" Hawke sounded even more offended. She shoved the useless elven woman out of the way and stabbed a shade with the blade she'd had attached to the end of her staff to make it less mage like. The illusion of it being a non magic weapon was only mostly ruined when she yanked it out of the fleshy demon to spin it around, creating flame from nothing.

"Down!" the dwarf yelled and Hawke's knees hit the floor just as a flurry of crossbow bolts ripped through the air where her chest had been, burying themselves in the shade. The demon screeched that awful, ear-splitting noise and collapsed on top of Hawke. She shoved at it and rolled, coming back up to her feet before the sticky black mist left over could get into her lungs. It wasn't dangerous, but shade corpse smelled really bad.

She spun around as she came up, feeling the heat on her back before she faced the living flame, hunched forward as if it's own weight were too much to bear, roaring in incoherent rage. She blasted ice at it on instinct and slid backward, "We got a live one here!" Anders appeared at her side with the overtly intimate feel of Justice pulling, then pushing the fade through her like the respiration from some gargantuan beast inside in her head.

She released her hold on it as she spun around and crashed her back against the spirit's, protecting his flank and getting a much needed breather while he and Varric peppered the rage demon with ice and arrowheads. Justice always came out to play for demons. Demons and templars.

Hawke took a deep lungful of air and reached out, pulling the fade back into her with a hitch of something that felt like guilt. She didn't think Fenris would be pleased, if he ever found out that Justice liked to rub his spirit stink all over the insides of every mage in the room, but that didn't really matter in the face of actual demons. Besides, she had a feeling she was the only mage who knew Anders well enough to recognize that odd feeling whenever Justice was around, though any tranquil recognized it immediately. Wide eyed, innocent denial seemed the best thing for everyone's mental health.

Anders reached back and tapped her hip to warn her of his imminent movement and she moved away on instinct before it occurred to her to be confused. Justice didn't worry about such things, but she could still feel him, breathing through her. A thought that would have to be worked out later as she barely ducked in time to avoid the clawing, grasping hand of another shade.

She launched herself forward, ramming her shoulder into the beast and gaining room to fight, though the sword blooming from it's chest made that unneeded. She took a relieved breath when Fenris appeared behind the dissolving demon. Hawke held the elf's attention just long enough for him to complete his customary post-battle wound inspection, growling at the tear in her sleeve and the barely-bleeding scratch underneath before he stepped past her, stalking over to Denarius.

"You are no longer my master!" Fenris yelled, behind her. She didn't turn around. The next part of this play had a tendency to turn her stomach. She squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered at the sickening wet crunch from behind her before exhaling and turning around.

The elf was advancing on his sister who still cowered next to the wall where Hawke had shoved her. The woman was giving a whole litany of excuses, of course, but Fenris didn't seem to be buying any of them. Hawke twisted her lips, hesitating the briefest of seconds before she interrupted, "Fenris, don't kill her."

"Why not?!" the man roared, rounding on Hawke, blazing blue white in his anger. She turned her face and took a step back as he advanced, then stopped. She looked back up at him slowly. He was staring at her.

Seconds passed slowly, Fenris still watching her, his tattoos still shimmering. Finally, the elf stopped glowing and pushed past her, running up the steps to the second floor of the tavern. Hawke watched him go, brows drawn together in confusion. No one spoke.

"Thank you, serah," his sister said softly.

Hawke turned on the elven woman and arched a brow, "No one should ever have to kill their own family." A pause, a brilliant smile, "You're not my family. Get out."

The smile faded like mist under a summer sun as the woman fled the bar, not looking back. Hawke rolled a shoulder and tossed her staff to their table, miraculously still upright after the fight, "I could use a…" she trailed off as she caught sight of Fenris, running back down the stairs, a sheet stolen from one of the beds upstairs stretched between his arms. He barreled in to her, and in seconds had her trussed up and being carried out the door.


	62. In Which Fenris Stakes a Claim

Rather than being tied to a chair, Hawke was tossed onto Fenris' bed, bouncing slightly before she came to a stop in the soft blankets. She managed to unwrap her upper body from the sheet before the elf was on her again, wrapping rope around her wrists. She tilted her head, watching him but not struggling, "It did not occur to you that rope couldn't hold me?"

"Well, now that you say it like that," he said, his voice flat, deadpan. He was parroting her words, but in such a manner that made it clear he knew exactly what use rope was in binding a mage. That didn't stop him from sliding down to her ankles and starting on those.

Hawke leveraged herself up to one elbow, still watching. Unlike the elf, she made no move to escape his binding. He was scowling, his brows drawn down, movements jerky and efficient in anger, but he was not glowing, or smiling. He was pretending to be threatening, and so Hawke was content to pretend to be helpless.

When he'd finished with her ankles, he stood up and moved away, into the room. His shoulders rolled in suppressed aggression, his clawed gauntlets flexing, then curling into fists, then flexing only to curl in again. When standing still became too maddening, the elf began to pace. Half of his face and chest, along with the entire arm on that side and a good bit of his hair was tacky with the drying blood of his former master, but he made no attempt to wipe it away from his flesh as he would have rushed to do with hers.

Hawke twisted in her bindings, dragging herself sideways across the bed so she could lay on her side and still see him, her eyes following each movement of his lean limbs with careful notice. For now, he was still gathering thoughts from under the storm of emotion and so she curled her arms and legs into her torso, forming into a smallish ball to wait.

When he began to speak, it all came in a rush, ranting as he paced back and forth, expressive hands gesticulating for emphasis. All of the rage and hopelessness and helplessness and betrayal surged through him like arrows looking for a target. Denarius, Hadriana, the Magisters, Tevinter, slavery, magic, his treacherous bitch of a sister, and the unfortunate fact that he had embarked on this journey of revenge without digging an extra grave, as the Arishok would have said. Hawke said nothing. Her words were not required, she could not sooth his bitterness and unfocused despair, only give him her attention.

Minutes later the vitriol stumbled to a stop and Fenris collapsed into a chair at the foot of the bed, as if the only thing powering his pacing had been the anger, and when he ran out of that, he had nothing left to continue to stand upright. He inhaled, held it a second, then exhaled, looking at the floor, "I am not angry with you."

The fact that her wrists and ankles were still bound spoke louder than anything she could say about where she thought his anger was pointed. Instead she just shifted, rolling her shoulders back and angling her head for a more comfortable position from which to watch him in his new perch, "I thought you kept your collection of Hawkes in the basement."

"You do not do well without a window," he murmured, still eying the floor. She arched a brow, intrigued that he had noticed something she hadn't noticed until he just now mentioned it, but he wasn't done, "This is also not a kidnapping. It is an intervention." He looked up at her finally, eyes sad, "You still believe I would harm you."

Hawke pursed her lips and shook her head, "No…"

"Yes," the elf said firmly, overriding her objection.

She held up her arms, still bound, "Does this look like fear?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, "You flinch from me. You did so in the Hanged Man. You could not bear to look at me."

Hawke clenched her jaw, "That was different…"

"It was not," he interrupted again.

"It's not you!" her voice raised to attempt to quell his reasoning with volume.

"You do not flinch from…"

"I'm afraid of everything, Fenris!" Her desperate cry got through to him and he went silent, watching her, disbelieving.

She turned her head to look at the ceiling, unable to meet the elf's gaze in her shame, "I'm afraid of everything," she repeated, softer, "Everyone keeps looking at me to make decisions, to be the strong one, to fix the problems, to protect…" She coughed, unable to continue that thought, "But I have no idea what I'm doing. I just stumble from one hopeless situation to the next, flailing about in pointless struggle when I know, _I know,_ that nothing I do makes a bit of difference, in the end. None of it means anything, none of it matters. I can't fix anything, I can't protect anybody."

"You are the Champion of Kirkwall," the elf interjected softly.

"Because I hit on the Arishok and amused him enough to keep around!" She looked at him, again, laughing humorlessly, feeling the earrings she still wore religiously tangle in her hair, "You know what he said to me? That I can do anything, as long as death is the other option. But what good is survival if I have to watch everything else…" She shook her head and closed her eyes, her voice coming out a whisper when she continued, "I'm afraid all the time. You're the one that stays close, stands guard, wipes off the blood… You think I'm afraid of you because you only see me when you're not standing between me and the world."

The clock in the great hall ticked softly. Fenris breathed. Hawke kept her eyes closed. Finally she spoke again, "Perhaps I should have stayed in the circle."

A growl answered her and Fenris caught her ankle, dragging her legs out straight as he crawled up onto the bed over her, pushing her onto her back. He closed his gauntlets firmly around her head and bent close, trapping her to the bed, "You are my dragon. _Mine._ The only cage I would see you in is this one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”_
> 
> Actually said by Confucius.


	63. In Which All That Begging Pays Off

Hawke lifted her shoulders, the tendons in her neck standing out in stark relief as she pushed up against the elf, chasing his lips. He pulled back, confused about her intentions before going still and pressing her back to the bed with a hand against her sternum. He watched her lips, his tongue darting out to wet his own before he slid one leg down against the outside of her thigh, settling his weight on her hips and his elbows. He caught her bottom lip in his teeth gently, pulling at it before releasing only to kiss her deeply.

Clawed gauntlets caught in her hair, gripping fistfulls of the black strands as he licked at her lips, begging entrance she gladly gave him. Hawke suckled gently at his tongue, her own sliding wetly across his. He made soft noises against her lips, something between a moan and a whimper before his hands were moving, scraping down her neck to the closures on her robe. When he found her still bound wrists in the way, he hooked a thumb in the rope and broke the kiss just long enough to push her arms up over her head.

He made short work of her buttons, with all those years of practice and eagerly yanked the offending cloth out of the way, tearing at her shift to get at her naked breasts. Cold steel claws scraped lightly at her skin around the heat of his palms, pinching when he kneaded the sensitive flesh, causing her to arch her back, pressing her shoulders to the bed to lift her chest. The elf slid down, hot breath brushing over her neck and collarbones as he kissed and nipped down to find a nipple, wet tongue tracing a circle before his lips closed around her.

The elf settled in to feast on her, pressing her breasts together roughly so he could suckle and lick at one nipple, then the other without moving more than required. Hawke writhed under him, wriggling in the restraints and squeezing her thighs together, hips rolling, trying to relieve some of the ache that roared to life when the elf so much as glanced at her these days.

Fenris released the nipple he had caught in his teeth and groaned, "Hawke… Hawke, I need…"

"Anything," she breathed, bucking underneath him, unconcerned just at the moment with any particulars, as long as it involved more of this, "Please, Fenris, anything, please."

Sudden, almost violent motion ensued as the elf reared up on his knees and pushed her over onto her stomach, claws tearing at her robes as he yanked them up to her waist. Her small clothes were torn nearly in half with the force of their removal, left in scraps around her knees. The sounds of more cloth and buckles being desperately yanked at while Hawke arched her back, lifting her hips from the bed, presenting for him.

The flurry of movement ended just as suddenly as it began with the elf burying himself inside her and hunching forward over her back, hands grasping, clinging to her as he held himself still, panting against her shoulder. Hawke groaned, low and long, a sound of pure, tortured relief.

She wriggled, contracting her spine to push herself further under his rigid torso before she started to move against him. His hand, gauntlet still attached, jerked and gripped her hip, ceasing her motion, "Hawke," he growled, half warning, half plead.

"I won't hurt you," she whispered, lifting her bound wrists from the bed though he couldn't see them with his face buried in her neck, "Please, Fenris. Please let me do this."

He didn't respond, but his grip on her hip loosened and he made no move to stop her when she pressed back against him. A soft, approving murmur came from her throat and she rolled her hips, twisting them to one side, then the other, intently and methodically rubbing the head of his cock against every hidden place that had been so long neglected.

Fenris twitched, shuddering and biting down at the soft fabric covering her shoulder, but he stayed still, letting her control every movement while she used him, gently, deliberately, shamelessly.

She memorized in intimate, agonizing detail the exact bend of his cock, the length of it where the tip nestled against the opening of her womb, the girth that ground wetly past her lips, the weight that settled, thick and heavy against the front wall. Soon, though, the pressure began to build and her motion turned from slow and sensual to pointed and rhythmic.

The elf groaned in what could have been pain, his gauntlet tearing the blanket as he made a fist. He clung to the bed, to her, to sanity, trembling, desperate to give her everything she wanted before friction and biology could conspire to tear him down.

Hawke writhed, bouncing her hips underneath him, keening in high pitched, breathy, wordless cries of pleasure. The muscles in her back tightened, her head lifted, pressing back hard against his chest while he rode her frantic bucking, "Fenris… I… I'm… c…" Her spine flexed, hard, pulling her hips up, her shoulders back and she made a noise. Deep, straight from her diaphragm, animalistic and primal, air forcing itself up her throat as she climaxed.

The sudden milking of his cock broke the elf and he jerked, slamming into her, the hand at her hip clutching his as he shoved hard into her, heedless, wanting only to spill his seed in the deepest part of her, to paint her in his colors, to mark his dragon -- not for the world to see, but in all of her private places, where only he could follow her.

Unable to hold himself up any longer, Fenris collapsed on top of her, but made no effort to pull out. Rather, he nuzzled in closer to her rear and held her tight against him, making soft contented sounds as she continued to twitch and tighten around him.

Uncounted, drowsy moments passed before Hawke shifted slightly, stretching underneath him. She smiled into the covers and cleared her throat, "Sorry, did you want me to struggle?"

"Struggle?"

Hawke picked her bound wrists up again, waving them, "I'm good with it. I can be the helpless lady." She started wiggling again, feigning an attempted escape, "Oh! Help! Help me!"

Fenris growled and pulled her back underneath him, "Be still, infuriating woman."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby's first smut!
> 
> For public consumption, at any rate. Is bad? Is not bad?


	64. In Which I Wrote More Smut

It should have occurred to Hawke that if she and Fenris didn't make an appearance after he'd carried her off from the Hanged Man, that people would come looking for them. It didn't. At least, not until three days later when they did show up, banging around in the great hall and calling for the elf.

Hawke sighed softly, stilling her hips and sitting back, looking down at the elf underneath her who had, until a second ago, been drifting in languid bliss as she rode him. Now, he was glowering as he reached up to wrap an arm around her waist and flip them over, settling back into the easy rhythm she had started, grumbling, "Ignore them, they will go away."

Hawke didn't require too much convincing, her hands sliding down Fenris' chest to linger on his abdominal muscles that flexed in time with his slow, deep thrusting. Soon, however, there was a knock on the closed bedroom door and the sound of Varric clearing his throat, "Uh… Listen, Broody, we're just looking for Hawke…"

She sighed, "I'm fine, Varric!"

"And if anyone opens that door, I will kill them," Fenris added in an almost conversational tone. He slipped a hand between them, his thumb sliding into the very little space left by his hips and circling her clit in gentle, teasing motions as he traced his free fingers over her cheekbone, making hushing noises and whispering, "Look at me. Look at me," he smiled at her when she met his eyes, breathing, "That's it, little dragon, stay with me."

Hawke's breath caught and she lifted her head, curling in towards the added sensation. She grit her teeth together, fighting to keep her eyes open and locked with the elf's. Varric didn't seem to get the memo, "Yeah, great. Chuckles, you know I hate to interrupt a honeymoon…"

"Five minutes, dwarf!" Fenris yelled. He tapped her cheek with his fingers as her attention wandered away from him, sliding his thumb in the diminutive, steady circle he'd now spent days learning and mastering. Hawke's muscles flexed and she bit back a cry. The elf slid his hand around the back of her neck, squeezing firmly and leaning close to breathe quietly in her ear, "Shhhh. Gently, gently. I've got you, little dragon. Hold on to me. Hold on and let it come."

Hawke closed her arms around his shoulders, fingernails digging into the hard muscles of his back, and clung to him, safe and trusting and hidden and warm and wet and _Oh, sweet Maker…_ Her throat closed instinctively before any of her customary animal grunts and groans, or Maker forbid screaming could start. Instead, she made soft, vaguely strangled noises as she shuddered underneath the elf. He held her tightly, thumb still working to wring every last spasm from her as he growled softly, approvingly in her ear.

When she could breath again, he pulled his hand out from between them and wrapped it around her waist, keeping her anchored to his chest as his legs spread and his hips lifted, his thrusts now fast and rough. He nipped at her jawline, panting and murmuring the same endearments over and over, "My dragon. My sweet, soft little dragon. I've got you. I've got you."

It didn't take long for Fenris to follow, gripping her shoulders hard and thrusting into her, as if he could get deeper than the physical realities of their bodies merited and fill her with every bit of him instead of just his seed. He held his breath for an eternity of too short seconds as his cock flexed and throbbed, pumping creamy white ejaculate into his dragon, "Mine," he agreed with himself.

"Yours," she confirmed.

It was a little more than five minutes later when Hawke was seated on the couch, wrapped in a blanket as all her clothing was torn, listening to Anders discuss his idea of how to separate himself and Justice.

Hawke watched him for a long minute after he finished talking. She reached out to the fade, letting it surge into that spot at the back of her skull and held it just long enough to confirm that it was breathing before she released it, pushing it away.

She smiled gently at the stranger wearing Anders' skin, "Of course we'll help, Anders. You know that."


	65. In Which Anders Isn't in the Party

Hawke had once joked that at least Justice got a good looking body. It was still a good looking body, though seemed worn now, older. There were dark circles under his eyes, his stubble was more unkempt than usual, and his cheeks seemed thinner, sunken somehow, as if in illness. The smattering of wrinkles that had once outlined a face that had laughed often and loudly, now spoke of a different man, one with a ruthless concentration that Hawke had only rarely been witness to.

She stood in the doorway of his clinic, watching him work silently. He hadn't noticed her yet, and she called no attention to herself, standing out of the way as people passed in and out. She held her breath and reached for the fade again, testing. Justice was still there. Normally there'd be an outward sign of him, the swirling lyrium blue in his eyes, the crackle of energy, the voice that didn't seem capable of being produced in so small a form. Now, it was just Anders. An older, tired Anders suit that someone else was wearing.

"Do we require the mage, today?" Fenris was standing at her shoulder, watching Anders as well. They had jobs to do, today, money to be made, various officials to be mollified. Normally, Anders would be with them.

Hawke sighed softly, "We always need Anders," she replied, "I'm just not sure that is Anders." She glanced at Fenris.

"He's an abomination, Hawke. If there ever was an Anders, he was dead before you met him," Fenris replied, arching a brow at her.

Hawke stifled a sigh and stood up from the doorjamb she had been leaning against, walking into the room as if she had just arrived. Fenris didn't understand, and she wasn't sure she could explain, nor even that there was anything to explain. In shocking news, Anders had a spirit living inside his body. Surprise.

The mage smiled at her when he saw her coming and set down the supplies he had been organizing, "Red. Finally come to sweep me off my feet and carry me away from all this?" He said that just loud enough for Fenris to hear. Of course.

She smiled back, "Do not taunt the stabby mean elf, Anders."

His smile turned coy as he bent back to his supplies, packing them into a crate, "You wouldn't let him hurt me."

 _Maybe not today._ She changed the subject, "How's the potion going, is it done yet?"

"Potion?" Anders glanced at her before his brows raised in recognition, "Oh! Yeah, that's… no, not quite done yet. May take some time, yet."

Hawke kept her smile firmly on her face, tilting her head, "Some sort of delay? Anything I can help with?"

Anders, unfortunately, knew when her smile was faked, and whoever she was talking to now apparently had access to that knowledge, because he narrowed his eyes at her, clearing his throat, "No. Nothing you can help with, dove."

Hawke took a deep breath, "You would tell me, though, right? I mean… You know I only want to help you. Anyway I can, Anders. You'd tell me… If there was a problem. With anything," she said, only stumbling a couple of times.

The abomination gave her what seemed like a sad smile before it brightened considerably, "You've helped me plenty. But who am I to turn down such a tempting offer from such a beautiful woman?" He leaned forward and planted an affectionate kiss on her forehead, "Shall I grab my staff?"

Hawke exhaled, "No, no. Just wanted to see how you were. I know you're busy." She smiled again, moving away from him before he could reply and spinning to walk back to the door with a friendly wave.

Her smile vanished as she passed Fenris and he fell into step next to her, "Let's find Merrill."

"Oh, yes. The blood mage makes much more sense to parade around Kirkwall."


	66. In Which Hawke Takes After her Mother

The fade howled. It screamed and twisted, writhing in her grip like a handful of snakes. She held so much, so tightly, that she could feel spirits pressing against the veil around her. Justice roiled through it, breathing inside her, pushing even more magic through her flesh, causing unintended sparks to crackle over her form and an ethereal wind to lift the hair from her shoulders. She could feel Fizzgig, or at least something that felt like her demon, pushing back from the other side. She could almost hear the wild cackle, see the pride in his eyes. He liked her angry.

She was a beacon for every templar or mage inside a mile, a blinding magical storm that moved over the coast, ripping the stunted, scraggly trees from the loose soil and sending them cartwheeling like tumbleweeds. So chaotic was the force bearing down on the encampment that Samson just stared at her before stumbling backward and standing to one side, hands raised as if to surrender. She met his eyes for the briefest of seconds before dismissing him. Not a threat.

Varric, Merrill, and Anders were following her, Varric and Merrill silent and staring. Only Anders tried to speak, "Slow down, Hawke! You can't just run in there alone! You need us!"

Hawke rounded on the stranger in her midst, "I need Anders! I don't know who you are!"

The abomination stopped dead, staring at her, blatant pain painting his handsome features. That gave her a moment's pause, a second's confusion and a wave of remorse. She took a deep breath and looked around at the rocks and scrub brush and sand, as if she could divine some answer there. She shook her head after a second, "I'm sorry," she murmured, barely heard, "They have Fenris. They have Fenris, Anders."

His reaction cycled through emotions -- surprise, confusion, anger, amusement ( _Amusement?_ ), a flash of jealousy, before finally settling on determination. He walked towards her, entirely unafraid even when his jacket started to whip around his legs and sparks arced to his skin. He put his hands on her cheeks, looking her directly in the eyes, "And we will get him back. Breathe, Hawke. Just breathe."

Hawke exhaled forcefully, letting her grip on the fade loosen. Not entirely, just enough to quiet the storm, to wash away the wild magic following in her wake. Just enough to give her a deceptive air of calm that wouldn't fool anyone who could sense magic. Anders nodded, satisfied, and released his hold on her head.

"If they hurt him," she whispered.

"I know," he replied softly before stepping back and nodding at her. He was absolutely prepared to help her slaughter every person in the encampment on her command. He didn't even like Fenris, but if she said the word, he would burn down anyone that tried to run from her fury. Perhaps he wasn't Anders. Perhaps Anders wouldn't have been so willing to kill a lot of people. Guilt flooded her heart as she recognized that right now, right this second, she would take this stranger over her missing friend.

She turned from him before her expression could give anything away.


	67. In Which we All Feel a Sense of Dread

The Stranger was praying. She hadn't known Anders, or Justice, to be especially religious, but there he was, kneeling in the chantry, his head bowed. She narrowed her eyes at him before shaking her head slightly and turning back towards Elthina, who was refusing firmly Sebastian's increasingly desperate pleas for her to leave town.

Hawke kept her mouth shut and let her attention wander, watching the city thrum softly outside the grand doors, kept open and inviting during the day. The old bat wasn't going to help, and wasn't going to get out of the way. The incompetence and general attitude of ignoring things until they went away might have been shocking, if she hadn't personally lived through it already, with the Arishok.

She reached up, her fingertips tinkling through her earrings as was her habit when she thought of him. She could still feel the needle piercing her ear, the focused concentration on the Arishok's face, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as he slid the rings into her flesh. It had been intimate, his claws sliding through her hair as he pushed it back from the ear, the heat of him, standing so close to her side, her blood thick and tacky, splattered across his lifeless chest.

Hawke blinked and came back to herself, shoving the memories aside. Anders came up next to her and smiled. He seemed more peaceful than he had in days, as if he finally fit in his own skin. Perhaps there was something to this praying thing. She might try it herself. Later, when she no longer had to play city babysitter.

The conversation ended where it had begun, nowhere, and she followed Sebastian out onto the great steps when he stalked out. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and glared into the distance, breathing heavily. The rest of the group stood around him, awkward, uncomfortable, deep in thought. Anders seemed the only one who thought things were going to work out just fine.

"Why won't she go?" Sebastian asked no one, or perhaps everyone, or perhaps the Maker. It seemed a rhetorical question, one slung in anger than in any actual search for meaning, but Hawke felt obliged to reply, anyway.

"With the Maker on your side, what have you got to fear?" Sebastian narrowed his eyes at her as if unsure if he were being mocked. She shrugged at him, "She has too much faith and not enough survival instinct."

"We have to do something!"

"What would you have me do, Sebastian?" He turned to face her, his eyes equal parts anger and pleading, "The entire time I have known that woman, she has spoken platitudes while watching the walls crumble around her. If you want her out of the city, you're going to have to bash her over the head, lock her in a trunk, and toss her on a boat."

The man's eyes widened as if she were committing some terrible blasphemy, "Hawke!"

She threw her arms out, "Unless you know something I don't, Peanut, that's the only way she's leaving. Do you have any better ideas?"

Sebastian glared at her, his jaw tightening before he looked away again, grumbling unhappily, "We are not kidnapping the grand cleric."

Hawke dropped her hands, shrugging again, "Then we just hope sister Nightingale comes up with a brilliant plan to save her. Then she can be the Champion and I can move somewhere less tropical."

"Oh, Navarra is beautiful, this time of year." Sebastian turned slowly to stare at Merrill. She smiled at him, "With the leaves changing, it really is something to see. Perhaps we could all go there." She looked around, "On holiday. Do we get holidays? I don't remember having a holiday, but now Hawke is a noble, maybe…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're entering the homestretch, guys. Hold on tight, please keep all arms and legs inside the vehicle, and keep posting those lovely comments.
> 
> We may yet live through this.


	68. In Which Hawke Braids Anders' Hair

Hawke stared at the dagger in her hand, balanced lightly on her palm. She wasn't sure how it had gotten there. She wasn't entirely sure how _she_ had gotten there. She felt like the day was missing, as if she'd woken from some terrible dream to find herself in a place she did not recognize. She tilted her head at the shorn off towers of the chantry, then around at the fires in the street. There was a dead templar at the foot of the stairs, screaming in the distance. Sebastian was weeping openly.

The pieces could not be made to fit. She couldn't make them snap together. All the little slices of the last fifteen minutes just floated there in her head, fragments of a shattered whole, drifting in the void. The chantry, and probably a good bit of hightown had been reduced to rubble. Fenris was bleeding from a gash on his shoulder. Hundreds, thousands maybe, dead. Anders had not been praying, the last time they were in the chantry. She'd openly defied and attacked the Knight Commander of Kirkwall. She'd never seen Sebastian weep, before. One of her best friends was a terrorist. She'd bashed her knee pretty badly in the fight. Kirkwall's circle was in open rebellion. Or would be, when they figured out that going along peacefully would just get them killed.

She turned, looking down at Anders, or whoever he was, now, sitting silently on the crate next to her, facing away. He wouldn't look at her. He was waiting for her to pronounce judgement, for her to sink that dagger between his ribs then let Fenris wipe the blood off.

She reached forward with her free hand and pulled at the leather strap that held his hair into that messy half ponytail, pulling it out and letting the blonde strands fall around his shoulders before she picked out one of the longer sections and sliced it off at his scalp.

The mage shuddered at the feel of the blade and hunched his shoulders, "For what it's worth, I'm glad it's you…"

"Stop talking," she interrupted softly, paying his words no mind. Instead, she dropped down onto the crate next to him, facing the opposite direction and set the dagger down next to her thigh.

Sebastian furrowed his brows and stepped forward, "What are you…" he stopped when Fenris put a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back with a shake of his head. Hawke ignored him, too.

She started braiding the lock of hair, using the leather strap to hold it together. She pulled the fade into her while she did so, letting it pool inside. Clear, cool and calm, not even a ripple. Justice was gone. He'd been hanging out for so long, she'd almost forgotten what magic felt like without him in it, and now that there were consequences, he was nowhere to be found. She smiled bitterly at the braid as she worked, "Seems Justice was an actual representation, and not some ideal, after all."

Anders glanced at her finally, opening his mouth before she cut him off again, "Don't say anything." He exhaled softly and went back to staring at the street. She plucked a couple of feathers from his shoulders, sliding them under the leather holding together the braid, "It's my job to kill you. Because I'm the Champion, and that's what the Champion does. Sacrifice her loved ones on the altar of Kirkwall's apathy." A tear drew a line through the dirt on Ander's cheek as he squeezed his eyes shut and drew a shuddering breath.

"Tomorrow," she continued softly, "The sun will be shining, and children will be laughing." She finished making the lock that she would place into her box, later, and slipped it into her belt pouch.

Bethany, Ketojan, Carver, Mother, Arishok, Anders.

She looked up at her friends, watching her, expectant. Fenris had his eyes narrowed, his lips drawn into a frown. He was Concerned. "If I asked you to run away with me, Fenris…"

The elf didn't ask her to repeat herself. He didn't look away, he didn't say anything about duty. He didn't hesitate, or even let her finish, "I'm already packed."

Hawke felt the lump in her throat that had been missing, in the shock, but swallowed it down and nodded, picking up the dagger before she stood up, turning back to the mage. He probably deserved to die, if not for the terrorism than for being just another abomination like all the others she'd killed, regardless of how well meaning it had started. They just couldn't ask her to do it. "I'm done carving off bits of my soul for this Maker forsaken city, Anders." He turned then, looking up at her in confusion, but he didn't try to speak, "You probably don't want to be here, come morning."

"No!" Sebastian stormed forward, "You cannot let this abomination walk free. He dies, or I am returning to Starkhaven, and I will bring such an army with me on my return…"

Hawke rounded on the prince, hers eyes blazing in anger, "An army?" He lifted his chin, as if daring her to say something. Say something she did, "Of course you would. An army sounds exactly like you. So very interested in law and justice, as long as it's someone else holding the blade!" She tossed the dagger at him and he stepped back, letting it drop to the stone in front of him, her voice had gone low, deep and trembling with rage, "If you want him dead so badly, pick up the dagger, your highness! Get your own hands dirty, for once!"

Hawke swept past the prince, stalking towards the stairs, "Aveline! I need you to…"

"I…" Aveline sounded unsure. Hawke turned to look at her and she spread her hands, "I don't know if I can follow you on this, Hawke…"

Hawke's eyes got wide, "What's the other option, Aveline? Help the templars massacre a bunch of timid book worms and grandmothers? Guilt by association? I don't know if I'm the only one paying attention, here, but the only people in the city associating with Anders is us!" She stopped short and held up a hand, breathing for a second, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Aveline. I…" She looked up at the torn expression on her friend's face, "I don't need you to follow me, Aveline. I need you to do what you do best. Protect the city. Keep the fighting contained in the Gallows. Don't let it spill out onto the streets."

The look of gratitude on Aveline's face made Hawke's heart hurt, "I can do that, Hawke," she said, nodding, "You can count on me." She sketched a little informal salute and spun, hurrying off to gather the city guard.

Her eyes slid to Fenris. She was afraid to ask, but she didn't have to. He stepped forward to fall in beside her, "You may be leading me to the void, little dragon, but I will follow you there, gladly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Prompt: Sebastian picks up the dagger. Epic Anders/Sebastian duel in the middle of Kirkwall's rebellion.


	69. In Which Merrill is a Bad Ass, Too

Surprise. That's what Hawke should have felt, finding out that Orsino was a blood mage. She should have been shocked, horrified. It should make her stomach twist and her head swim. Hawke, however, was just resigned. Of course Orsino was a blood mage. Or course Meredith was stark, raving nutters. Of course her twisted knee had gotten banged up again while they were putting down the First Enchanter and now she was limping down a corridor, lost, in the Gallows.

She could heal it, of course, she was perfectly adequate, after all. She'd gotten most of them out of the deep roads, dragon shit and all. She dared not. It was going to be a long night, they still didn't know how they were going to get out of the city after securing the tower, and she had to save that magic for Fenris. He somehow always ended up taking punishment that had been intended for her.

Varric was standing in the middle of a crossing ahead, looking around, "This place is a bloody maze, Chuckles. Have we passed this way, yet?"

"If we had, there would be more blood on the floor," Fenris answered the dwarf, joining him to gaze down random hallways, nonplussed.

Hawke hobbled into the crossing with Merrill under her arm, the elf helping her walk to keep Fenris' hands free for his sword. She turned around, carefully. Nothing looked familiar. To be precise, everything looked equally familiar. The same drab grey stone hallways, the same plain wooden doors with iron bars set into them, the same oil lanterns hanging equally spaced to provide light. It could be any of a dozen intersections in the circle.

Her head swivelled around before stopping. Her eyes narrowed. There wasn't a familiar landmark, but there was something. Something down one of the hallways was tugging at her. An itch behind her eyes, a vague sort of knowing anticipation like when she knew it was Fenris entering the bar behind her, or Varric sending the messenger at her door, or Anders… She blew out a hard breath and blinked her eyes quickly. Now was not the time for that. Tears were a luxury afforded only to people who weren't heroes.

She released Merrill's shoulders and limped in that direction, determined to walk it off. The others followed behind as if she knew where they were going. Down one hallway, across an intersection, a couple of left turns and there, at the end of the hall, a dead end with an iron door criss-crossed with arcane symbols.

"That doesn't look like they way we came in," Fenris said, his glower slightly more grumpy than usual.

"It isn't," she answered, walking towards the door anyway. It was locked as she knew it would be and she could feel the magic washing off it in waves. She tilted her head before she backed up slowly, pulling Fenris with her, "Merrill," she said gently, nodding at the door, "Take down that wall."

The elf blinked at her, "The whole wall? I don't think I can do that. I could hit it with lightning, but that would probably only blacken it a little, maybe make your hair stand up all funny, but I don't think…"

"The roots, Merrill," Hawke interrupted, lowering her chin and giving Merrill a little smile, "No stone wall ever constructed has stood up to roots."

Merrill's eyes got even bigger than their normal improbable size and her gaze transferred from Hawke to the wall. She then looked down, brows drawn in concentration before looking back up, "I would suggest waiting around the corner," she said finally, her voice certain, steady now that she was in her element.

For a long time, nothing seemed to happen. The sounds of fighting in other sections came and went, but they never saw anyone. Soon enough, though, a low, soft rustling could be heard around the corner, then a rumble coming from the floor, from the bowels of the circle that grew louder, soaring into an ear splitting screech of tortured stone and culminated in a crash and the sound of a cave collapsing.

Hawke peaked around the corner to find the elf dusting off her thighs and looking back, "The ground is two floors down," she said, trying hard to keep the pride from her voice, "I had to take out a section of floor, too." She brightened, "But we don't have to find stairs, now!"

Hawke squeezed the woman's shoulder as she moved past, hopping carefully over the large hole in the floor, piled in rubble that made a dangerous, if passable decent to the ground level. Inside the room were phylacteries. Rows upon rows of shelves holding a staggering amount of phylacteries, around half of them glowing in varying brilliance.

Varric whistled from behind her, "I don't think there are this many mages in the Kirkwall Circle."

"Perhaps they keep them after the mage dies. Or…" Fenris shook his head, "Bad bookkeeping."

There was one, right there, on the second shelf on the third row from the left, that drew Hawke's attention. She limped over and picked up the tiny vial, causing it's glow it leap in brilliance from bright red to lyrium blue. It was hers, it had to be. No one else's would have such a reaction to being touched.

Hawke stuffed the vial into her belt pouch, her fingertips touching, then stroking gently over the braid of hair. No. No time. Grieve later. She turned and walked back towards the hall, commanding Merrill as she passed, "Burn it down."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Cullen. And then? Epilogue. Are we excited?


	70. In Which Cullen Keeps his Promises

Fenris was yelling. Hawke turned her head, bleary, her vision fuzzy, to see the elf wading towards her through a crowd of templars. He was waving his arm, but he wasn't looking at her. She looked that direction to find Merrill rushing forward, grabbing an arm and hauling her to her feet with a good deal of help from Varric. She swayed a little. Her head hurt. Someone must have caught her with one of the giant shields all the templars carried.

She shook her head as if that might clear up her vision before she looked around. Everyone else in the courtyard looked just as stunned as she felt, thankfully. The fight did seem to be over, though. She looked back at the last place she remembered Meredith being, to find a new statue. Huh. Hawke had a feeling she'd missed something big. Not that it mattered, now. Fenris finally got through the last of templars between them and swung around in front of her, lifting his sword.

They were surrounded by what still seemed to be an impossible number of templars. Hawke was tapped out of magic, and from the sunken cheeked, gaunt and pale look of Merrill, she'd be risking death if she kept eating herself to cast spells. The templars were reorganizing quickly, several of them moving in towards Fenris, shields raised and a bristle of sword points forming a circle around them. There was no way they were going to fight their way out of this one.

"Fenris…"

"Don't say it, little dragon," the elf warned firmly, turning slowly to keep his eyes on the ever growing wall of shields.

Hawke swallowed, "Fenris, just…"

"Varric!" the elf yelled.

"I'm with Broody, on this one, Hawke." the dwarf grumbled softly from her side, turning to cover their flank.

"Just let them have me, Fenris!"

"No!" the elf roared, feinting at one templar who stepped just an inch too close, and pushing that side of the circle back, "I have followed every order you've given me, Hawke! I have killed templars for you, I have abided the company of abominations and blood mages for you!" He shot a furious glare at her over one shoulder, "I have proclaimed myself on the side of an entire circle of Magi, on your say so, but that order I will never follow!" He turned back on the templars, pushing forward again, his voice softer as he finished, "You cannot ask that of me."

"There's no guarantee they'd let us go, even if we did hand you over, Chuckles," Varric said behind her, "Always knew it was gonna be me and you against the world, in the end, Hawke. Just glad we got company."

Hawke sighed, squeezing Merrill's shoulder before she pushed her back to stand between her and the dwarf, "Living forever did sound frightfully boring." A commotion at the front of the circle caught her attention and she gasped softly in cautious relief when Cullen pushed his way through the wall. He eyed the elf cautiously before he sheathed his sword and handed his shield off to someone else.

He held his hands up to show Fenris he meant no harm as he took a couple of slow steps forward, "Serah Hawke."

She touched Fenris' shoulder and slid out of from behind him. The elf glared at her, but made no move to stop her as she went forward to meet the templar, "Knight Captain," she greeted him in return.

Cullen tilted his head at her, taking in her appearance. He raised a hand, glancing at the elf before he brushed her hair away from her forehead. His gauntlets came back stained red with blood she had leaking from a gash on her temple, "You should let us tend to these wounds, Serah."

"I appreciate your concern, Knight Captain, but my companions do not seem convinced of your good intentions." Fenris growled and she gave the templar a soft smile, "He always was a bit cranky."

The Knight Captain folded his hands together in front of him and frowned at her, "You are an enchanter in the Kirkwall Circle, Serah…"

"Kirkwall doesn't have a circle, Knight Captain."

He narrowed his eyes at her, "I know all seems grim, but Meredith is dead, we can rebuild…"

Hawke interrupted again, "I destroyed all the phylacteries." She arched a brow at him, "Up in smoke. All of them. You have no mages for your rebuilt circle."

Cullen was quiet for a long moment, his face a mask of barely contained anger, "Hawke…"

"You were going to kill them, Cullen. I gave them a fighting chance. I regret nothing."

The man sighed, running his gauntlet through his hair and rubbing at the back of his neck. He glanced back over his shoulder at the statue before looking at Hawke again, "What a mess," he said under his breath. His eyes flickered to Fenris and back, another sigh, "I'm not going to kill you, Hawke." He raised his voice, looking back at his men, "Stand down! The Champion and her companions are leaving!"

The templar wall dissolved as swords and shields were put away, and most of the templars moved away to start cleaning up from the fight and tend to the wounded. Hawke exhaled slowly in relief. The others relaxed and Fenris put his sword away. She looked around at the courtyard, pressing her lips together. Finally, uncertainly, she looked back up at Cullen, "Tell me, Knight Captain, do your oaths to me still stand, when there is no circle?"

He arched a brow at her, "I believe you destroyed my ability to keep that promise. Up in smoke, was it?"

Hawke fished her phylactery out of her belt pouch and held it up, "All but one."

Cullen stared, at her, then the small vial, his eyes wide as if just now completely understanding exactly what sort of power that vial held, and exactly what it meant that she would give it to him. He swallowed and took the phylactery gently, cradling it in his palm.

Hawke held his eye for a long minute before she closed her hands around his, "You have to leave this city, Cullen," she murmured, low enough for only the two of them to hear, "Get out before it kills you, too."

Cullen raised a hand to brush the back of his gauntlet against her cheek, his voice lowering to match hers, "I'll take care of you, Red. Wherever you are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, now, that wasn't so bad, was it? One more chapter!


	71. In Which Cullen Takes his Last Report

Turner was getting on in years. Only middle aged for most people, but the lyrium had taken it's toll. He had aches and pains and was getting a little forgetful, hobbling now with a cane after injuries received escaping Haven. Cullen leaned back in his chair and smiled at him. He'd followed Cullen from Kirkwall to serve the Inquisition. He wasn't a believer, he didn't even seem to be all that religious, but there he was, commanding the only group of mixed mages and templars that Cullen had managed to scrape together.

He settled into a chair with a soft groan and settled his hands on top of his cane before he grinned at the Commander, "Bit of a ruckus, in the yard, last night, sir."

Cullen arched a brow. He was far past taking minor reports, and Turner was far past giving them, "Oh?"

The grin stayed firmly in place, "Oh, aye, sir. The qunari, Iron Bull? He had a lassie up on his shoulders, was runnin around the yard, the whole lot of them Chargers chasin after them, tryin ta pull the lassie down." Still grinning, overly pleased with himself, "Think they'd all been drinkin."

"Nothing wrong with blowing off a bit of steam," the commander shrugged his shoulders, "Sounds like just a bit of fun."

"Oh, aye, sir, was fun at that. But then the 'Quisitor, he comes out of the bar, and that Krem laddie, he climbs up on top of tha 'Quisitor's shoulders, and then him and the Bull, they're howlin and beatin their chests, and the lassie and Krem, they be making just as much fuss. Yellin to beat all. And that's when Miss Josie, she comes runnin out the keep, wavin her arms, talkin 'bout Orlesian Nobles visitin and maintainin decorum."

Cullen narrowed his eyes, leaning forward over the desk, a strong sense of deja vu coming over him. He could almost see Frank, standing by the door, or Chissik sitting next to him, but Chissik was out on a patrol hunting Vanatori spies, and Frank was still in Kirkwall, "And?"

"Oh, then the two Qunari, they charged at each other, right there in the yard, and some of the refuges, they panicked, and knocked over some tents, and let the chickens out." He paused for a moment, "Chickens be surprisin'ly mean, sir." He nodded at that, as if imparting a great deal of wisdom, "Was a pretty good fight, what with Bull being a bit bigger than the 'Quisitor, but that Krem laddie, he's all muscle, and lassie was just a mage…"

Cullen stood up slowly, "A mage?"

"Oh, aye, sir. Wasn't castin no spells, or nothin, but a mage, all the same. But then Krem, see, he gets hold of lassie's hair, and one of Bull's horns got all tangled with one of the 'Quistors, and the whole lot of them went over, right into an old fire pit. Was ash flyin everywhere…"

He trailed off, still grinning at Cullen, who was standing in shocked silence, his hands gripping his tunic. He didn't say anything so Turner continued without his input, "You be wonderin why Miss Cassandra not be puttin an end ta all that, and she she did show up, but soon as she figured out what was goin on, well she let out this yell… Well, I just never heard nothin like it. She goes tearin off after that dwarf she was keepin prisoner…"

Cullen bent suddenly, digging through the bottom drawer of his desk until he found a small velvet bag with a drawstring to keep it closed. He tore it open and dumped a brilliantly glowing red vial onto the desk top. He stared for a long moment before a matching grin spread across his features, "Trouble's moved to town, Turner."

"Oh, aye, sir," the older man agreed, giving a satisfied sigh, "Been too long."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is, as they say, that, my lovelies.
> 
> Again, I own none of the DA series characters, and have only partial claim to the original characters. My biggest and best thoughts for everyone who has stuck with me for so long, through so much. I am not being at all hyperbolic when I say that this story would not be complete without the support, encouragement, and constant presence of you guys. You know who you are.
> 
> To answer some questions, yes, I have been considering taking this into Inquisition. I've got some ideas there, but I'm not sure. Seems that story will be quite a bit darker and more angsty than this one (How is that even possible?), and I'm not sure how well that would go over. But it's being considered.
> 
> Even if I don't, I assume I will be writing again, if not DA stuff, then something. May even post some of my original work at some point. So I'm not vanishing, promise.
> 
> I'm also hereby giving out permission to take any of my original characters and beat them until they submit to your own stories. An adventures of Fizzgig story would please me, greatly. Someone get on that.
> 
> Update: I've decided to go ahead and continue Hawke's story into Inquisition.


	72. Artwork!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was done by the talented and wonderful RabidTanuki on Tumblr.
> 
> You can visit her page and see all her work at <http://rabidtanuki.tumblr.com>.
> 
> Go and be stupified. I especially recommend [this facinating study of Fenris](http://rabidtanuki.tumblr.com/post/119796797361/fenris-or-someone-who-is-pretending-to-be-him-he). It makes me wanna mrowl.

[ ](http://rabidtanuki.tumblr.com/post/123402729921/blind-panic-random-direction-by-dramatological)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, of course, the alley scene in [Chapter 36](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3440570/chapters/7774328)


End file.
